Beginnings
by Troublesome-monkey-dono
Summary: There are things in his past that bravest man couldn't bare to look at. For Alfred, he faced them single day. And he isn't sure whether he should laugh or cry. FACE family. R&R please!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _No, I do not own Hetalia._

**Note:** Hello, hello. The story you are about to read what I would call a very small autobiography of America, as a nation as well as a person. Well because I am attempting to use so much of history in this story, there is no way I can use all of it. Therefore, there will always be discrepancies in text. The information used will never be truly accurate, nor do I claim that it is. I will try to be accurate, but will have to spare accuracies in line with the story. Certainly mixing a fictional character with true life will create discrepancies. Oh yes, Please excuse my grammar. I'm not a grammar nazi, nor do I tend to look at my work often. I also tend to only write late at night mostly during three in the morning. Therefore, there are a lot of mistakes. Please forgive me.

**Oh right. If you see *, its a foot note. Scroll below to see the details if you like.**

_**Chapter 1: Dreams**_

America's blue eyes twinkled as he flipped on the television. Tonight was the night he would watch a documentary that he's been dying to see. Normally he wouldn't dare watch a documentary as boring as England, but he was assured that it would keep him at his feet. The President, who Alfred enjoyed to play basketball with during the weekends, told him it was worthwhile to watch it. Therefore, being the loyal man that he is, he has taken time off his busy schedule to watch the series. It was a relatively new series the History Channel created called America: The Story of US. America grinned, he saw that playful pun there. Normally, he wouldn't dare watch any documentaries about himself despite having a chance to glorify his achievements. He clicked his tongue silently, it was either to glorify his achievements or to chastise his shortcomings.

He stretched back and watched the opening, which he found to be exaggerated but awesome. He grinned like a little boy when the narrator, Liev Schreiber*, said, "We are a land of many nations." He felt his body tingle slightly in recognition. People falsely believe that his origins are predominantly from Europe, specifically England, but that is not the case. It certainly is not today, it was never the case yesterday.

Truthfully, America couldn't trace his origins. As a personified nation, he is made of many people. Therefore, there was no real way to trace his direct origins. However, he can trace them by memory. Honestly, his very first memories were scarce and hazy like any child's. They were snippets of a tiny movie in his mind, only awakened during the dark hours of the night. He couldn't make sense of most of them, but he remembers the sensations clearly.

America's blue eyes glazed over as he sat in deep thought. He glanced dully at the television and realized the first episode was the development of the first English colonies. "No," he noted silently, "that isn't right." His first few memories was not at all about European civilization. He closed his eyes in deep thought. No, his very first memory was raw and untamed wilderness. He took a deep breath and swore he could smell the grass underneath him. He could almost feel the sunlight hitting his body and he could taste the crisp New England air. He could hear the birds chirp away and the other animals rustle in the bushes. That's right, that is his first memory.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. The sensation was as clear as day, but the vision was a foggy cloud. He couldn't picture it. "Am I getting old?" he wondered out loud. He stretched slightly, feeling his joints creak. Alright, perhaps he was. He let out a chuckle, not as old as England and France. He opened his eyes and drew his attention to the screen once more. That's right. It started with the rebellion. He let about a bittersweet smile. The rebellion against England was a great beginning for his nation, for him, but it wasn't the beginning.

America looked away again and scanned the room. He wasn't quite sure why he was so irritated but perhaps looking around the room might jolt something out of him. What he spotted deepened his frown. He stared straight as his original video taped copy of Pocahontas*, given to him along with a package of the Disney Classics by the Walt Disney Corporation. He leaned over and grabbed it in distaste. He loved the movie and even found himself singing one of it's songs in the shower a few times. "But," he muttered, "it's a bunch of bullshit."

Pocahontas's inky black eyes stared straight at him, as if it meant to suck him dry. Sighing, he leaned back and closed his eyes once more. They were eerily familiar. It reminded him of a long lost memory suppressed by the ages. He could vaguely recall a woman with inky black eyes and billowing black hair. She was dressed strangely, he could remember. That's right, she was dressed in tanned hides, moccasins, with colorful decoration. Her face remained obscured from his gaze, as if she meant to hide from him. His frown deepened once more, she too far to reach. She was always too far to reach.

* * *

><p><em>As far as America could remember, he was always branded as special. He was special because, despite the years that passed he still retained his baby like features. He was special because he when he played with the other children sometimes the elders would send him odd looks. Sometimes they would take their children away from him. Sometimes they could take him away instead. He didn't like being dragged away because he was always scolded after. He could scarcely understand what the elders meant, but he would nod and take his whippings. After he would run to his mother in shame and cry. He remembers asking why they would do that, but his mother would soothe him and simply answer, "It is alright. They do not understand how special you are my son."<em>

_She was right of course. He was a special boy because he looked so different. His golden blonde hair would shine brighter than the rest. His milky complexion was seen in a tan crowd and his sky blue eyes twinkled when he laughed. His mother would always run his hands through it when he cried. She would kiss his milky white forehead softly and look into his eyes as she whispered, "No need to cry about something like that. They will understand someday."_

_As he snuggled closer to her, he grasped the tanned moccasins in one hand and played with the shells of her top idly. "When will they understand?" he would ask softly, "Soon? Tomorrow? Today?" He frowned as she laughed softly smoothing his hair._

_"Only time will tell child. The river runs at it's own pace, so so will you." With that she lowered him to the ground and resumed her work cutting wood. America watched her enviously. His mother was so strong, so powerful. Everyone looked up to her and accepted her authority. She was very beautiful. He admired how her black hair was soft and fluid like the water, while his was a birds nest. Even more so, her stature was slim and powerful while he was frail and pudgy. He hung his head in shame. Her son was a failure._

_"Mother?" he called out to her, "I- Do you think that..." the words faltered in his throat. He swallowed and began again, "Mother, do you...do you need help?"_

_His mother turned to him with a sweet smile and said, "No, no. I am fine. Why don't you run along to the creek and get us water yes?" He nodded and ran along, holding a water proof woven basket with him. As he dipped it to the pool, he scanned the area. The remaining children were with their parents, intent on staying near them during the night. He sighed and heaved the basket up._

_"Flying Eagle, Flying Eagle, why don't you spread your wings?" he heard someone sing behind him. He turned to his cousin, Black Bear grin down at him. He continued to sing, "Spread them high, in the sky, and -"_

_"You can't sing," America said, "and Auntie would be mad if you don't hurry home with water." He indicated to the basket he held in his hand. Black Bear only grinned at his little cousin and slung his arm around America's shoulder._

_"You got a whipping again didn't you?" he asked lowering his voice. America only nodded and Black Bear tsked at him, "That's why I told you to play away from sight. Perhaps the hunters would have seen you, but father wouldn't mind. Just stay away from the elders!" America pouted and nodded earning a small smack in the back. Black Bear continued, "Tomorrow, at the break of dawn, the hunters will leave to the forest south of here. Do you want to come alone with father and I? Father said it was okay to bring in a group of boys to earn experience. Come along with me!"_

_America's face broke into a grin. He was happy, relieved, that someone cared enough to invite him. He nodded gratefully at his older cousin but stopped short when he realized one thing. "I...I have to ask mother," he said looking back to her direction, "I can't leave her alone. She needs my help and -"_

_"She will be fine," Black Bear assured looking towards her as well, "Others will help her. The women and some men will all stay together while we are away. Besides, Auntie is a strong woman. She even influences the elders! And anyway, you may look like a baby but we all know you're stronger than one! So it'll be fine! Now then, I must go." He shoved America along his way and said, "Ask her tonight and tell me tomorrow." With another fond smack in the back, he turned away to dip the basket into the water._

_America found himself running towards his mother, carefully maneuvering his way to her with armful of water in the basket. "Mother! Mother! Black Bear told me that, he told me that I can come with him and Uncle Sparrow to go hunting! Mother can I? Can I go with the hunters?"_

_His mother eyed him seriously for a moment before letting out a small smile. She motioned him to put the water in the waiting pot near the fire and said, "We shall talk about this later when work is done."With that she set of the work along with the other women, leaving America alone. He pouted as he watched her walk away._

_It was only until late at night did he face his mother again. They sat near the fire, far away from the crowd, and he watched her weave a basket between her nimble hands. She sang softly to herself, almost ignoring his existence. Almost. From time to time she would glance up at him and smile, her eyes glowing amber as they reflected the blazing fire. "Flying eagle, Flying eagle, why don't you spread your wings? Spread them high, across the sky, and look down upon the land wise and true," she crooned softly, "Do you see what I can see? Do you dare to tell?*"_

_He squirmed in his seat impatiently. He loved to hear his mother sing, but he wanted an answer. She looked down at him and gave a small smile, "You are far too young to fly my Flying Eagle." America could almost feel the disappointment slither into his stomach. Does that mean the he couldn't go? "Tell me," his mother continued, "Will my flying eagle be ready to leave the nest? Will he fly across the sky like all the rest?"_

_"Yes mother!" he answered automatically, "I can fly! I can!" He leaned forward with determination, "Just watch me!"_

_His mother's face took him by surprise. Instead of a smile she awarded him with a stern frown. She reached forward and ran her hands through his hair once more. "You cannot fly. Not just yet." He opened his mouth in protest but she quieted him once more, "You are too young. Too rash. Too proud. You need to learn to be steady, to take action at the wisest time. I do not think you are ready."_

_America found himself silent. What was he suppose to say to that? His mother was always always right. His mother's abrupt action took him by surprise. Suddenly she stood up stiffly and gazed at the stars. Her lost gaze stared at the dark abyss and landed at the celestial moon. She looked back at him and whispered, "But it is not I who thinks you are ready or not."_

_She motioned for him to come forward. Suddenly, America found that he felt smaller than ever. He barely made it up her hips. The sudden realization scared him. He grasped at the material of her dress and looked up at her warily. She patted his head and said, "You may go with Uncle Sparrow and Black Bear. Now go to sleep, we will wake early tomorrow."_

_America could only look at her shocked. So he was allowed to go? He stared at him expectantly as if daring her to take back her word. She only laughed and ushered him to bed. "I will see you off in the morning." As he closed his eyes and welcomed sleep, he was vaguely aware of his mother movements._

_She stayed awake smoothing his hair from time to time, as she began to pack his belongings for the trip. She began to sing the same song earlier under her breath, " Flying eagle, Flying eagle, why don't you spread your wings? Spread them high, across the sky, and look down upon the land wise and true..." As he rolled over in his sleep, he silently answered the question. I don't want to._

* * *

><p>America was jolted awake by the instant buzzing sensation he felt his pants. Grumbling he reached for his ringing cellphone and barked, "What?"<p>

A moment of silence followed and then a cough. "Alfred?" he heard someone squeak on the other line. It took him a moment to realize that it was Canada.

He sat up awkwardly and immediately responded, "Ah sorry Mattie. I was sleeping. Wassup?" He grinned lazily into the phone, keeping his eyes to the television. Oops. He fell asleep. He mentally reminded himself to watch the series another time. Hopefully then he'd be more interested.

"The g8* nations are meeting tomorrow before the World Summit," Canada replied, "Something of a pot luck like France suggested. I was wondering if..." America rolled his eyes. Rather it was night of booze and the occasional left fist.

"Yeah sure Mattie," he answered immediately, "I'll pick you up at five then?"

"Okay."

"See yah then Mattie!"

"Okay Al. And...we might meet the O5* there too so Al please...:

"Yeah, yeah Mattie. I'll keep my hands to myself," he waved his brother's plea nonchalantly, "It's not like I'll start another World War." However he mentally noted that with France hosting this said pot luck, it was like eating a meal in midst of Normandy. That or the suspicious prostitute alley he accidentally found himself in the other day.

"Anyway, say something the next time Russia sits on you," he joked halfheartedly making Canada sputter in response, "or if England runs over you. Or if India pushes you out of the window. Or if -"

"Alright Al! I get it!" Canada shrilly shouted, "Goodbye!"

America only laughed in response, "Okay Mattie. Bye!" As he hanged up, he wondered how he was ever related to Matthew in the first place. He was the complete opposite of him, despite sharing the same face.

However, he was his North American brother. He was someone he could rely on and occasionally share a competitive rivalry when it came to ice hockey. Now Mattie was a beast at ice hockey. Now if only he held that amount of rage when it came to dealing with other nations. Maybe then he won't be so invisible that they could at least see him enough to stop unintentionally hurting the poor guy. Well, so much for miracles.

As he stood from the couch to turn off the TV and DVD, he glanced down at the other Disney Classics. "Why is it," he began to wonder out loud once more, "that there are more Disney Movies for girls?" Still he reached out for them, suddenly feeling it was high time he had another Disney movie marathon. As he sorted through them, he found one that was more...manly.

"Aha! Tarzan!" he decided, popping the DVD to play, "God I love Phil Collins!*" As he watched the movie, he suddenly found himself even more upset than before. He growled in frustration. Weren't Disney Movies suppose to make you happy!

He scowled sourly as he watched the baby Tarzan being cradled by his gorilla mother Kala. He didn't remotely understand why, but the scene made his heart wrench. At the same time he felt unbearable anger, as if the scene was a complete abomination. It was something that he never had a chance to see or feel, as if it was never an experience he could have again. Of course that would have been a lie to say that he hasn't. Perhaps.

He was ready to throw the remote at the television screen when his phone rang again. Angrily he snapped it open screaming venomously, "What? What now Mattie! What the fuck do you want? I told you already! I'm getting you at 5! Jesus!"

"Alfred!" another voice barked at the phone, "Bloody Hell lad! Is that the proper way to greet someone!"

He almost cringed when he heard the English man on the phone. Damn. "Uh...I'm sorry England I was -"

He was ignored completely by man who was ready to rant of his mistake, "Have I taught you nothing? A gentleman never speaks blasphemy as a greeting! You aren't a bloody pirate! How many times have I told you that -"

"Yeah but England..." he began to whine.

"Don't you start once more Alfred! You may an adult now but you are acting like a rash child! I didn't raise you to behave so...so...so damn-"

"Awesome?" he interjected with a small smirk.

"Alfred F. J-"

"Ah England, are you my mother?" America found himself asking as he started at Kala comfort the dejected Tarzan. It felt like an idiotic question but what can he say? He wasn't exactly human per say. He was, but he was also a nation. Thus, when it came down to it, was England really his Mother England? Mother England. He forced himself not to laugh out loud. Jesus, that cranky, stiff old man who was virtually the definition of a fun sucker was a mother? Ha.

He heard England swallow hard on the phone before croaking, "Wh-what?"

"Well you know," he pushed on, "seeing as you raised me and all. I mean I don't have a mother per say, so..."

"And you think that I'm your mother? Alfred what-"

"Well since France said call him 'Mon pere' when I was little," he answered switching to his badly imitated accent of the French Man.

He could almost feel the England cringe at the mention of France as a father. "Alfred," Arthur began feeling his voice waver, "After centuries of knowing me, I would have thought you knew what my gender is."

"Well," America decided glancing at the ceiling, "I never thought to look..."

"I'm man you git!"

"Ah...is that so?"

"Alfred!" Arthur sighed exasperated, " I am not your mother you idiot! I am a man, ergo that means I am your father!" America stayed silent for a moment and England added, "I don't understand why you even bought this up. Honestly Alfred, I thought it was obvious enough."

"Oh," America whispered, "nothing. I was just...watching something."

England rolled his eyes. Figures. American TV shows can be wholly unrealistic. His eyebrows scrunched together when he caught the noise in the background, "Is that Phil Collins?"

"Oh what? Yeah! I'm watching Tarzan so..." America answered trailing off.

"Is that why you asked me?" England asked suddenly piecing a few things together.

America sighed for a moment, "Well it's just... do you know who my mom is England?"

England tensed at the question. He opened his mouth, which seemed to disagree with him at the moment. Instead he felt his tongue twist, making it hard for him to speak. He had always found it hard to talk to America about the past, for obvious reasons. The Revolution was a touchy topic for him. Despite the years that have passed, he found that he couldn't completely let go of the event. However, the Revolution wasn't the only topic he wished to ignore.

* * *

><p>He could still recall the first few weeks he spent taking care of little baby America. Well, in human terms the child was well beyond his teenage years, however as a nation he was still a budding baby. When he won baby America, he was always amazed at how happy the baby was. However, he found that during his slumber the poor child would begin to whimper in his arms. At that time he wasn't quite sure how to handle it, having no prior experience with actually taking care of children.<p>

Upon further investigation he found that the baby would always cry out for his mother. He was at lost at what to do, so he would lie awake trying to soothe the child. He always found that humming a lullaby helped, at least for a while. He always dreaded the worst nights, when America would be wholly plagued by nightmares. His pudgy little hands would curl into small balls, his small figure would shiver uncontrollably, and his face with scrunch up in sorrow. He would jerk about, as if running, frantically grabbing at the air.

As Arthur tried to soothe the child, he would jerk awake and grab at Arthur fearfully. His sky blue eyes filled with uncontrollable tears would make his heart throb with once glance. America would whimper, keeping a tight hold of Arthur's dress shirt and cry out, "Mother left me! England! Mother left me!"

As he tried to calm him down, America would suddenly push him away with a hard shove. It would take all of his might to gather the small nation into his arms and hold him gently. All the while America would be wailing, sobbing hard as he fought away screaming, "No! No! Mother left me! She said bye bye England! Bye bye! No! I want mother back! Noo!"

Eventually Alfred would grow limp in his arms, weary of fighting. All he could to was sob through the night, ignoring Arthur's comforting words. Still England tried, patting the nation in the back and pleading him to stop crying. Even in his weariness, America would direct his sullen face to him and asked in a broken voice, "Why did mother leave me England?"

He always hated it when he didn't have an answer to provide. He couldn't possibly provide an answer, not when he hasn't even met America's mother in the first place. "I...I d-don't know America." He winced at America's face. He simply couldn't face it without his heart restricting painfully.

He had sorted to try and find out before. He talked to Finland many times, prodding the nation to remember if he has ever seen America with a woman before. He talked to villagers who spotted the tiny nation before he had taken him under his wing. All the answers were the same as his. He remembered feeling angered, annoyed, and bitter.

Silently, he hoped that the woman would have stayed a mystery and be gone forever. Who in their right mind would leave a small baby as cute as America behind! Granted, America could fend for himself quite nicely, but still. He decided early on that he instantly hated this woman. She took no responsibility for the child. She left him to fend for himself. The New World was still a dangerous place, even for America. He bet that she left him to die. She left him in this uncivilized, unwelcoming world. And for that, she was a horridly disgusting person. So, even if he tried to find answers to locate this woman, he had always hoped that she would stay unknown. For America's sake. For him as well.

* * *

><p>"America," he began slowly clutching hard on his cellphone, "We..I talked about this before..." Even now, he wasn't quite sure who this woman was. Truthfully, she was buried in the back of his head until now. He was fully taken aback when the topic even chose to resurface in the first place. As America grew, the nightmares began to lessen until it ceased all together. Since then, it became just another memory of the past.<p>

"I know," he heard America say over the phone, "I just... I was thinking about it and... she just came you know?"

"You remember her?"

"I..I...no I don't."

"Alfred..."

"I know it's weird but -"

"Al," England interrupted gently, "Do you want me to come over tonight? I'm already at the hotel after all." He heard America take a small intake of breath.

"Yeah, that'd be great Iggy. We can have a Disney Marathon night together!"

England found himself smile a little at the change of attitude. At the very least, it was a good thing that he was so damn optimistic. "Don't call me that you prat."

"Awe, Iggy!"

"Alright, alright. I'll be there soon." America heard the click of the phone, as England hanged up and grinned halfheartedly. He glanced around, contemplating whether or not to tidy up. He shrugged. It wasn't like England minded the clutter. Well, it wasn't like he minded England complaining about the clutter. That is, until he begins to hit him.

Alfred stood up, grabbing hold of the eight pizza boxes stacked on his coffee table. He peeked inside and saw one last, cold pizza slice still inside. "Should I?" he wondered. Taking a small bite, he instantly recoiled at the taste. Okay, he shouldn't have. He gathered as much crumpled tissue paper off the floor and table and set of the the garbage in the kitchen. Surprisingly, this kitchen was the cleanest room in the house next to his guest bedrooms. It was only because those rooms were never touched. Alfred rarely ventures into any of his four guest bedrooms, nor does he ever use his kitchen. What good would it be if he didn't use all of the gathered take out menus tacked on his kitchen wall?

Feeling like he's done enough cleaning, he went of to enjoy the rest of the movie. He decided to forget about his previous anger, and just try to enjoy the movie once more. Besides, it was fun to watch Terk and Tantor interact. Terk was always a funny character. He was taken by surprise when he found about that he was a female gorilla though.

"Way to ruin it for me Mattie," he grumbled sleepily. He felt his eyes drop once more. He yawned, silently berating himself to sleep more from now on. Three hours of sleep was simply not enough for him anymore. With one last glance at Terk the gorilla playing on screen, he let himself doze off. At least until England gets here.

* * *

><p><em>It was during first light when he was roused awake by Black Bear. "Wake up!" his older cousin urged, "Wake up or we'll leave you behind!" America rolled over with a groan. Black Bear sighed and began to heave him upward into a sitting position. America yawned and slapped his hands away, "I'm up! I'm up!"<em>

_"Good," Black Bear said, "Auntie is outside with father. She has already informed us that she packed your things. Now come on." Sluggishly, he followed his cousin outside where his mother stood along side his uncle._

_Uncle Sparrow was an impressive man with a tall, athletic physic, piercing gray eyes, a stern expression, and a scar running from his left eye to his chin. It was a the reminisce of a fight he encountered with a neighboring enemy when his tribe was burned to the ground. That was years ago, before he joined their tribe. "You two," he said, "take your belongings and join the others. I will join you shortly."_

_The two nodded and began to make their way to the larger group. A warm hand stopped America before he could leave. He felt his mother pat his head fondly and whispered, "Be safe my son. I gave you a little more food than you would need. Share with Black Bear and the others yes?"_

_"Yes mother," he answered obediently as he grinned up at her, "I'll miss you!"_

_"As will I." she gave one last warm smile before ushering him away, "I will see you soon."_

_Whatever happened after was a blur for the young America. All he remembered was what happened after they stopped for a break. He remembered Black Bear grabbing a hold of him and dragged him over to a fallen tree to sit on. He remembered gazing enviously as Uncle Sparrow tampered with his new spear as he explained what kind of game was present nearby._

_As he watched Black Bear and Uncle Sparrow talk, he couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to have a father. Currently, he didn't have a real father despite having numerous uncles to fill the void. However, he always wondered where his father had gone to. He had a mother after all._

_He remembered asking about him once but his mother only sighed. "Do you want a father?" she asked him. Well, no. He didn't really need one, although it would have been nice to have one. He was just curious. His mother carefully explained to him that he didn't have a father. It was upsetting to say the least._

_What she said after was even more so. "My son," his mother whispered to him once, "I found you in the woods one morning. I found you on a hollowed tree bark, sleeping peacefully near a field of flowers." He remembers his expression turning from utter to shock to mild anger. He even remembered yelling at her about lying to him. He remembered his own twisted feelings; feelings of abandonment, distrust, betrayal, anger, sadness, and a million more jumbled into one. He remembers his pudgy little fists angrily hitting her chest, as he sobbed into her bosom._

_"Does at mean that you are not my mother?" he asked. He was afraid that she would say yes, although he knew the truth. He was afraid that if she did, she would leave him because he already knew the truth. The very thought scared him. He didn't want to live alone in a tribe where some people shunned him. He didn't want to know that his mother would leave him. He certainly didn't want to know that his whole existence was a lie._

_However, that was not the answer his mother gave him. "It does not matter if I did not bring to this world," she explained to him, "You are my son and I am your mother. That does not change." He took comfort in those words. He took comfort in the fact at even if people shunned him, he still had his mother by his side._

_"Is that from the village?" he heard his Uncle bark, breaking his thoughts. He turned to look at his Uncle's gaze, to north where a trail of smoke was seem to originate from the outline of the trees. Swiftly his Uncle ran to the others, pointing at the smoke trail. Almost immediately a murmur of voices broke as they stared at the sky._

_"Do you think..." he heard his older cousin trail off, "It can't be the Village right? Why would it be set on fire?" A number of possibilities ran through their heads, each unpleasant to the ear._

_Finally Uncle Sparrow shouted, "Back to the village! Quickly! We may loose time but we can not ignore this!" And so they ran, quickly to the north. America couldn't fully comprehend the situation, but he knew one thing. There was a chance that his mother was in danger._

_Unfortunately, he was never a swift runner. Suddenly, he found himself in the back of the pack trying his hardest to catch up with the rest. Normally, Black Bear would spare him some pity and wait but this was far too important to look back._

_By the time he reached the outskirts of the village he caught bits of information. There was an attack from a neighboring tribe. They came an three hours after the hunters left. They came in vast numbers. America forced his legs to run faster. He could feel the adrenaline pump into his body as he ran for the village. "Mother!" he heard himself yell out, "Mother!"_

_He had almost reached the last bend to the village when he felt an arm snake it's way to his waist. He let out a yelp of surprise and formed a fist, ready to attack his pursuer. He found with mild surprise that it was Black Bear. He glared down at him questionably and hissed, "Are you crazy! You cannot run in there without a weapon! You're just a boy!"_

_He was about to protest but stopped short upon seeing Black Bear's face. "Stay here," his older cousin frantically whispered as his eyes darted in all directions, "Stay here and do not be seen! I am warning you! Listen to me!" America's eyes began to water in frustration, but he managed a stiff nod._

_Black Bear only gave him a grim nod and said after a moment of thinking, "If I do not come back, run to the east of here. There is a cave there where you may hide. Do you remember that cave? I use to take you there to play." America managed another nod as he looked to the ground, "Good. The others will probably meet you there as well. Go now! I will follow!" He gave a hard push and ushered America off._

_Before he could go he felt Black Bear suddenly pull him back once more. "Let no one see you," he warned, "If they see you , they will take you. Do you promise to hide?" America let out a sniffle and nodded. He hid his tears from his older cousin. He bit his lips bitterly. He was pathetic. Black Bear only nodded and gave him a fond smack on the back. With a small wink and a grim smile he said, "I'll see you later." With that he ran off, taking his bow and arrows with him._

_Despite his promise to quickly run off, America stayed there for what felt like another hour. His mind was a pool of confusion. Should he disobey Black Bear and still run to the village and help? Should he obey him and run to the safety of the cave? His eyes began to fill with helpless tears once more. He wanted to run to that village and be the hero. He wanted to find his mother and make sure she was safe. He desperately wanted to fight alongside Black Bear and prove his worth. But what can he do? He was a very frail, pudgy little boy who could barely shoot an arrow. What can he do? He hang his head in shame once more. He was worthless._

_When he resolved to head to the cave he was stopped short as nimble fingers grabbed a hold of his shoulders. He dared to look at his captor, only to have his heart skip a beat. It was his mother. "Mother!" he let out a joyous squeak. He immediately launched himself to her, clinging hard at the material of her arrow torn dress._

_"Son," his mother panted with exertion, "I am glad you are fine."_

_America nodded his head vigorously, "Black Bear! Black Bear told to stay here and be safe! I- I'm sorry mother! I couldn't help! I'm sorry!"_

_His mother only shook her head and ran her shaking hands through his blonde hair. "He was wise," she said, "Now we must go. We must get away from here."_

_"There's a cave!" America squeaked pointing the east, "Black Bear told that there is a cave that safe to go to! Mother, we should go there! He said that -" He stopped short his mother's pained expression, "Mother?"_

_His mother only looked at him with sadness and said, "We can not go to that cave my son." She turned swiftly to the direction of the village before scooping him up in her arms, "We will head south instead."_

_America squirmed in her arms, grasping a hold of her shoulders to steady himself. "But mother!" he protested, "Black Bear said that everyone will meet there! We have to go there!" He was silenced by his mother placing her chin on top of his head. He watched as her lips silently trembled as she tried to catch her breath. It was then he realized that his mother was shaken, "Mother?"_

_"They did go there," he heard her whisper, "and they didn't come out." The news was a hard slap on the face for America, who fully expected almost everyone to make it through this ordeal. He buried his head on the crook of his mother's neck and began to sob. He was sick of this feeling. He hated the feeling of complete hopelessness. He felt worthless, disgusting, shameful. It was a horrid feeling._

_He didn't notice that his mother was running, gripping him hard against her as she dove through the forest like deer. His forehead bumped into her neck slightly and he hoarsely whispered, "What about Black Bear...and Uncle Sparrow...and..." His question was left unanswered as his mother ran for the hills. He sniffled and closed his eyes. Somehow, the exhaustion had caught up to him._

* * *

><p>"Alfred you damn arsehole! Open the door!" America jumped, efficiently finding himself planted face first on the floor. He groaned in response, heaving himself up. In his throbbing pain, he vaguely heard the banging of his front door. England was screaming once more, "Alfred! Alfred! You bloody wanker! Open this door immediately! It's bleeding freezing out here! Alfred!"<p>

As he stood up, he felt himself shiver slightly. As he fought off the sleepiness in his eyes, he pushed the vivid dream to the back of his head. "America you prick! Open his damn door before I kick it down!" He ran for the door as fast as he could, shooting England an apologetic grin. The nation showered him with a barge of insults, a kick or two, before entering the threshold. "What took you so long answering the door?" The Englishman snapped shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack.

"I fell asleep," he answered sheepishly.

England only sighed, giving him a final soft punch on the arm muttering, "You sod." Instead of getting an air headed response he was met with Alfred looking crestfallen expression. He only sighed, leading the American into the couch and pushing him down, "What happened?"

America shook his head, glancing up at him uncertainly. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I...I think I'm going crazy."

England raised a skeptical eyebrow. He knew America was a lot of things. An idiot. A wanker. A bloody bipolar child. An impulsive brat. An irrational sod. Just to name a few, however, he never once considered America crazy. Alfred was irrational at times, but quite sane. "I don't think so," he answered bluntly.

America pushed back, leaning on the leather sofa and sighed, "It's just that...I've been getting these dreams...you know?"

"No," was his reply. Silently, he hoped it wasn't what he thought it was, "What kind of dreams?"

"Just...I...stuff?"

"Alfred..."

"Okay okay," Alfred sighed giving in, "It's just that, I keep seeing this woman okay?" England felt himself raise another eyebrow. A woman? Oh god, was he going to have one of those talks with this lad again. He remembered talking about it, ages ago, but he thought that he would have remembered it. Upon seeing his old caretaker's face America recounted, "No no, not that kind of woman! Just...a woman. Like...like...I don't know. This American Indian Woman. And she..she..she always..." he trailed off looking at the floor. He didn't know why, but it was hard to say who she was despite knowing deep in his gut that she was truly what he dreamt he called her.

"Alfred?"

He took a deep breath, "She was my mother Iggy." He felt England squeeze his shoulder and he leaned into his touch as he recalled his dream. They stayed silent for a while, with America faintly noticing that England had shifted their position so that he could wrap his arms around his bigger frame, holding him like the child that he was.

"I keep dreaming all these things that...never happened to me. At least, I don't think it did. But, they're so vivid Iggy. It's like a movie." America explained, "I remember all these things I shouldn't."

"Oh? What are your first memories then America?" England prodded silently, smoothing the hair out of his forehead.

America looked away and said, "I remember walking around the plains...and then Finland and some people spotted me. They waved and...I waved back." He stayed silent for a moment before looking him, "Do you think that these are my memories before I was found?"

"It's possible," England answered, "When you were a child, you said you could scarcely remember what happened to you before. I thought it wasn't odd, but seeing as you age differently I was suspicious. Now this woman Alfred, your mother, what is she like?"

"I can't remember her so well Iggy," he whimpered silently, "Everything is so vivid, but every time I look at her face, it's like she so foggy. I can't focus on her face right, even if she's right in front of me." He contemplated for a moment, straining himself to remember. She had black hair...tan skin...a slim and powerful build...dressed in moccasins...and? He bit his lip hard. Her face, what doe she face look like? She had black eyes..and..and?

"Don't bite your lip so hard lad," he heard England reply reaching over to brush at the abused bottom lip, "It's already bleeding."

As he sucked at the blood, he surrendered himself to England's embrace. Normally, he would have blanched at the fact that England was cradling him like a child, but he couldn't bring himself to care tonight. "Do you think..." he began looking at England, "that I can't remember her because, she doesn't want me to?"

England only pushed his hair away and smoothed it out gently. He leaned back trying to find a comfortable position. He was strong for sure, but he had an easier time cradling America when he was smaller. "That hardly makes sense doesn't it?" he said.

America nodded numbly too tired to talk now. For some reason, despite falling asleep too many times for his liking, he was deadly tired today. It was like these dreams were sucking him dry. Dimly, he thought to himself, "Maybe, I didn't want to remember her."

"Go to sleep Alfred," he heard England whisper into his ear. He ran his hands through the lad's golden hair and gently pulled his glasses away, placing them on the surprisingly clean coffee table. As he did he hummed a lullaby, the same one that lulled America to sleep as a child. "...When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon,Then you show your little light,Twinkle, twinkle, all the night*..."

As America drifted to sleep he couldn't help but crack a bitter smile. She did that didn't she?

* * *

><p><em>The following weeks was a blur to the child. He could scarcely remember what happened to them during first few weeks out of the village. However, his mother seem to have found her way to a neighboring faction and informed them of their harrowing journey.<em>

_It was only then did he start absorbing his surroundings. They were further down, where the weather seemed far hotter than he was accustomed to. As he looked around he realized that this tribe was not related to their own tribe. Yet, his mother seem have some sort of direct authority over them as she had before._

_He watched as she consulted with the elders, occasionally looking around awkwardly. The attention he's gotten from the others was overbearing. Repeatedly the other members of the tribe would turn to stare at him, as if he would attack them like a ravaged beast. When he would look their way they would turn to each other and rapidly whisper in hushed voices. Even if he tried to overhear their conversation it was futile. They were speaking in a language he was not familiar with. One such man glared at him with cold gray eyes, examining him like a piece of rotten meat. America shivered. He didn't like it here._

_He awaited his mother for another hour, but it became clear she was not heading his way any time soon. Feeling dejected and weary, he stood come closer. However when the elders spotted him, one venomously spit in his way screaming, "Begone you vile thing! Do not come back! Have you done enough!"_

_America tensed and stood still, watching the old man with shock. He couldn't understand the man's words but they certainly were not nice. He watched as his mother pursed her lips distastefully and stated, "He is my son. He will do no harm." She motioned him to step closer. As he did, he watched the elders take a small step back. What did he do now? Was it because of how he looked? He sniffled, close to tears. However, this time he stopped them appearing as he edged closer to his mother's welcoming hands. He took hold of her open palm and watched as the elders analyzed both of them frantically._

_"Your son," whispered one man, "is part of that menacing race."_

_He felt his mother squeeze his hand hard and barked, "Race? We are part of the same race! There is no difference." America felt himself draw closer to his mother as the old man's nostril flared in response. He scowled down at him before stiffly looking up._

_"There is a difference," he uttered back, "one that is costing us our lives! Look if you must to what his men have done!" He pointed at the medicine man's tepee* with a quivering finger, "Even he cannot heal the sick! Many nights he has tried and failed! We are doomed! All because of his kind!" He pointed back at America who squeaked with fright. He felt his little body shake and quiver despite his mother's soothing hands on his back._

_"What do you mean?" his mother asked in a low tone. The elder said nothing and motioned for her to go to the medicine man's tepee instead. With a small sigh, she scooped America up in her arms and headed for the tepee._

_"Mother?" he asked quietly._

_"Yes, son?"_

_He snuggled close to her and looked ahead, "Why do they hate me?"_

_"They do not understand your uniqueness."_

_"Really?"_

_She gave him a small peck on the forehead, "Really." When the reached their destination, she set him down gently and said, "You stay here yes? I will be back shortly." He wanted to say no, but held back. Somehow, his gut feeling was telling him not to go inside there. He would rather face people's stares anyway. "Okay."_

_So he sat there, close to the tepee, idly scratching at the ground. Suddenly, the tepee flap was thrown open and his mother emerged looking weary. She motioned for him to stand, but before he could she scooped him in her arms. "M-Mother?" he mumbled trying to find a comfortable position._

_His mother kept silent as she trudged back to the elders. She uttered something he couldn't understand and the elders began to nod. He scrunched his eyebrows, trying to decipher their words. Finally his mother put him down as she went to retrieve their packed bags. He didn't understand. Where they leaving already? He watched as the elders supplied his mother with a bows and an a new arrow. She slipped a bag of food into her rucksack and turned to him slowly. "Son," she whispered, "We will be going now."_

_Normally, he would gladly take her hand away from this village but it was nearing darkness. Soon, they won't be able to maneuver in the woods easily. Sensing his small distress his mother only smiled and assured him, "We will be fine."_

_With that they left the hateful village and ran into the woods quickly. America found his tense shoulders ease slightly, thankful that he was away from that antagonistic aura. However, he found it odd how quickly they left. "Mother?" he called as he struggled to catch up with her, "Where will we go?"_

_"There is a creek twelve miles from here," his mother answered, "We will rest there for the night."_

_As luck would have it, they arrived at the creek within the hour. Surprisingly they met a couple of people along the way. "Mother!" America said tugging her dress, "Mother it's Uncle Little Foot!" Sure enough, the proud tribal runner was standing near the water bend humming to himself as he cleaned the fish he was about to cook._

_He looked up with a mischievous grin and slight surprise and called out, "I thought you two were a couple of game running this way." He welcomed them to join him and continued, "Why are you two here? Where are the others?"_

_As they sat around the fire munching on cooked fish, he let his mother recount the story. However, even he was aware of that fact that his mother had purposely left details out for his sake. He turned away, fearing that she would somehow tell him bad news about Black Bear. He has not seen the young lad since their separation, which left him desperately trying to calm his nerves. Black Bear is strong, he would tell himself. He survived. Just wait. He'll be back with Uncle Sparrow and the others and then we can go hunting like we planned!_

_His thoughts were broken by his mother who suddenly pointed at an item on Little Foot's being. "What is that?" she asked indicating an azure bead he had along with his necklace. America turned his attention to it. "I've never seen that before," his mother said cocking her head in wonder, "Where did you get it?"_

_Little Foot fondled the bead for a moment and took his necklace off. He passed it to his mother with a crooked smile as he glanced at America. "I traded with bizarre looking men in a journey many moons ago."_

_"Bizarre? Are they a tribe from the west?" his mother continued as she gazed upon the azure bead curiously. She passed the necklace to America who began to examine it with equal curiosity._

_"No," Little Foot whispered prodding the fire embers with a stick, "They are from the east. They told me far east, across the great oceans." America picked up his head curiously. He felt his mother lean forward as well. Little Foot watched him respond and reached over to run his hands through his golden blonde hair. "You know," he said after a moment, "They look like him."_

_America felt his eyes widen. They look like...me? He felt his mother tense and clear her throat. She asked hoarsely, "Wh-what do they look like?"_

_Little Foot gave them a little smile. "Like him," he said pointing at America. His mother's face soften and she gave him a small hit on the knee. Little Foot chuckled and said, "Alright, alright. Some of them looked like him. They were bizarre. Taller. Bigger. They had a white complexion like him. Their hair was different. Some had color like the sun" -he pointed to America- "and some had color like the earth. Like...like...mud." he said after a moment._

_America made a face. Mud? That didn't sound very nice. Little Foot looked up at the stars in thought, "Their eyes were like his too. Some were like the day time sky. Like the ocean. Then there were some that had eyes like the grass or like tree moss. Then there were some like ours." America crinkled his nose. Does that mean one eyes was like the sky and the other was like tree moss?_

_"And their clothing," Little Foot concluded, "was like a field of flowers. All different colors. They had these...things." He tried to indicate them with animated gestures, "They were like narrow sticks made of hardened silver. And they make a booming sound! Boom like the thunder! They hunted game faster than our best hunter! Can you believe that?"_

_"How much faster?" he found himself asking._

_"Faster than ever. Just one boom and the game is down," Little Foot recounted, "They gave us one of those thunder sticks in exchange for beaver fur and meat. They traded these beads too." He indicated to the azure turquoise beads in his hands._

_America found himself amazed. Does that mean that he came from this new tribe from the far east? Was he part of these new people with such interesting new things? He almost felt giddy. He always thought that he was a freak of nature, but now he knew that there were people just like him. He wanted to whoop with joy. He wasn't alone!_

_His mother's solemn face deflated his happiness. His mother sat there tense, her mouth drawn in a thin line, as she gazed at the stars. Her black eyes almost clouded over in thought. "I..."she began, "Has there been anything strange...happenings after they left?"_

_"Strange happenings?" Little Foot thought for a while, "No, none that I can think of."_

_"Has anyone become sick from the food? Fatigued? Feverish?"_

_"No, not at all."_

_"Are you sure?" his mother pressed._

_Little Foot held up his hands, "I'm positive. If you want to know so badly, we can head over earlier before day break. The main tribe is about a day of travel on foot." His mother relaxed her stature and turned to him._

_"Son, you need to sleep. We have a lot of traveling to do tomorrow."_

_"Awe, but mother! May I stay up a little more? Can I?" He pouted cutely. He was hardly tired, having sat all day. However, his mother refused to relent to his cute face. Rather she returned a stern face back with a raised eyebrow. He sighed giving in, "Fine." So he stood, making a comfortable place for him to sleep._

_Before he could give in the slumber's clutches he caught snippets of the adults' conversation. "Little Foot, my son...he is...does he really resemble them?" Her voice quivered slightly as she leaned forward in attempt to whisper, "Do you think that-"_

_"I do," the runner answered before she could finish, "He is from those people. There is one man...the resemblance is uncanny. He could even be his father." America felt his breath hitch along with this Mother's. His father?_

_"He does not have a father," his mother said silently, "He...I found him...years ago. We have not seen these people before have we? Is it possible that...It can not be possible at all if..." His mother trailed off with a sigh, "Those people. I have a bad feeling Little Foot."_

_Little Foot stayed silent, critically absorbing her words. "Should we stay away?" he voiced after a moment, "If we hurry we can reach the tribe before they can. We can -"_

_His mother raised a hand to stop him. She shook her head as she stared at the stars, "There is no need for that. They tell me it is dangerous, but they will find us no matter where we go. We will not hide from them."_

_Little Foot chuckled, "Not if we find them first. They are not stealthy people." He turned away to observe the river before adding, "You have not changed. You are the same as our last meeting."_

_His mother shifted slightly before nodding, "How old were you then?"_

_Little Foot cocked his head with a shrug, "I was but five years of age. You met my grandmother that time. She told me you look the same from her memories of her youth."_

_"I'm afraid I am getting older," his mother murmured under her breath, "I feel weaker. Brittle. Aged. I feel even more tired than I have before. Is that not peculiar?"_

_"You had the strength to hold the child with you for lengths of time," Little Foot pointed out, "I am surprised he can bear a journey such as yours for long."_

_"He is like me," his mother fondly surveying her son, "he may not know it yet, but he is like me." Little Foot frowned curiously. He watched has she edged closer to see if the child was indeed asleep. He was surprised by her face, a look of nostalgic melancholy. A look of utter despair._

_"Is he?" Little Foot asked in surprise, "But how? If you are -"_

_"I do not know," his mother muttered silently. Her voice seemed to quiver even more as she placed her chin on her knees, "I am not sure of his existence but...I fear the worst." She ran her hands through his golden hair carefully as he slept, "I fear that he may...someday..." She trailed off into silence, gazing deeply at the boy with uncertainty._

_He wasn't sure what the look on her face meant. It was a mixture of emotions too complex for his to examine. It was as if she was apprehensive, sullen, and weary. However, her eyes glinted of stark determination. He almost flinched when her face suddenly turned irritated, angered almost. "What do you mean?" he pressed on._

_"Oh my son," she voiced sadly ignoring the man before her, "My little boy..." Little Foot shivered where he sat and stayed quiet. Fearing to say anything else, he turned away intent on sleeping. He shook his head and let himself sleep. Silently he was serenaded by her soothing voice, "Flying eagle, Flying eagle, why don't you spread your wings?" she crooned, "...Why do you spread your wings?"_

* * *

><p>"*Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring. If that diamond ring turns brass, Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass..." America could barely hear England's soft crooning as he slowly slipped into the boundary of consciousness and sleep. Under normal conditions, he would have sat right up and joke at England singing such a baby lullaby. He would have even tried to joke about his voice, thought in all honesty England had a fantastic voice. Perhaps sometime soon, if he ever remembers.<p>

As he surrenders himself to sleep once more, he takes note of the trepidation he's feeling in his gut. By now, he knows somehow that he'll come face to face with another 'memory.' So far, all of them are painful and he can slowly understand why they were suppressed to begin with. That is, if they were suppressed at all.

Even so, he gives into this selfish indulgence. It was a way to justify uncertainties. A way to quench this torment hunger. It was away to see her, even if he couldn't truly see her. At least, in his dreams he gets to meet her. His 'mother.' At least, in this twisted fate, he could bring himself to indulge as long as he could to see her. Even if winds up hurt in the end. He didn't really care, knowing that this will cause him grief. He couldn't clearly remember the first few weeks he spent with England, but remembered waking up feeling absolutely terrified of this nightmare. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was certain that if these dreams continued he'd come face to face with them. And he didn't care. Because right now, he didn't seem to find himself caring about that. Right now, all he wanted to see was her.

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> Ahem...well honestly, I have no idea how this turned out. It went in a completely new direction I wasn't expecting at all, but I kept on writing anyway. If it's confusing...then ask me questions. I'm pretty sure it was seeing as I hopped in so many scenarios.

Aside from that, I'd like to acknowledge a few things. First, you may have noticed that didn't really get into describing what kind of tribes were present despite saying that he was around American Indians. That is purposely done because I couldn't and didn't want to focus on one tribe in particular. There are so many tribes out there sharing the same characteristics as well as contrasting in culture. There was no real way for me to pick, but I made it as general as possible.

Second, did I mention his mother's name? Uhm, no I didn't. I sincerely wished that I would have christened her a name, but thought against it. I'll leave that for the reader to decide because honestly I had no way of naming someone of such great importance. Let's see, normally I do not make OC characters and prefer to go with characters already created. However, in this case I had no real choice. So all the characters in here that are not from Hetalia originally are just made up and in now way shape or form based on anyone else.

**Footnotes:**

_~Liev Schreiber:_ Don't know him? I bet you do. He plays a lot of notable roles actually. One being Sabertooth (Victor Creed) in the Xmen Orgins: Wolverine, Ted Winter in Salt alongside Angelina Jolie, and Cotton in the Scream movies.

_~Pocahontas:_ Okay, most people know Pocahontas from the Disney franchise. Let's see, in real life she was not in love with John Smith, she was a a little girl back then while he was a full grown man. She married John Rolfe...blah blah blah. You know, something like the second movie (even though it was a lie).

_~Flying Eagle Lullaby:_ I made this lullaby up. It is not real. Honestly, I just thought it would fit America. Does he have an Native American name? None that I actually thought of, but it ended up that I referred to him as Flying Eagle by the end of this chapter. But who knows?

_~G8_: A forum of eight (originaly six) major goverments consisting of the United States, France, England (UK), Germany, Italy, Japan, Russia, and Canada.

_~O5_: Also known as the Outreach 5 or Plus 5, which is like the G8. It consists of Brazil, China, India, Mexico, and South Africa.

_~Phil Collins:_ Well, I'm pretty sure you all heard Phil Collins, even if you have no idea who he is. He's quite popular to begin with and he did the soundtrack for Tarzan, so if you heard the songs, you heard Phil Collins.

_~England's First Lullaby:_ This is actually a part of the original poem by Jane Taylor called the Star. Anyway, it really is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, I just didn't want England singing that part.

_~Teepee_: Also called Tepee or tipi. It's a tent, to say the least traditionally made of animal canvass and wooden poles.

_~England's Second Lullaby:_ Hush Little Baby lullaby. Not so sure who originally wrote it, but it is classic lullaby we tend to hear. Though, It seems to be an American lullaby since mockingbirds are found in the continent and not in England.


	2. Chapter 2

**EDIT: Added a good chunk in the end so please read it if you haven't. Thank you very much. **

Note: Well hello hello, time for chapter two. I thank you readers for following this little story and for those that reviewed. Anyway, I actually meant for this part to be included with the first chapter but ended up cutting it earlier. I didn't want to plug and chug so much you know?

Right, this is where America remains more OC than I would have liked. However, I personally can't help but do it because there was no insight on his character before his direct meeting with England. So, with that in mind I have much I can work with. Right, I'll cut it to that. Read on!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Separation<strong>

* * *

><p>America was never one who enjoyed to be touched. Oddly enough he never really enjoyed intimacy, despite enjoying social gatherings. It was just a thing with him. Rather, he preferred initiating intimacy rather than be dominated by another. This held not only for the very few lovers he ever had, but with anyone he personally knew. It wasn't because he held any sort of paranoia or any other, but because he enjoyed the power he held. It was a chance to control the situation. It was a chance to observe and respond as he saw fit. In other words, it was a safe zone for him.<p>

This small preference he had was the reason he reacted so violently when he awoke earlier that morning. When he cracked open his eyes, he noticed he had fallen asleep in his leather couch. That would explain the aching neck he immediately tried felt upon moving. With a rather vacant and dazed expression, he looked down only to find an arm wrapped around his waist like so. While he was only half awake, his mind was still able to dimly register that it was impossible for him to own three arms. Even more impossible was the feeling of a clothed chest next to his ear, where he could hear somebody's own heart beat.

And so, as the thought flashed through his head, his body reacted as best it could. Rigidly he tugged at the arm, hoping that it was attached to this said body behind him. He heard the individual give a grunt of surprise as he was pulled up from his sleeping position. With a quick flip, he tossed the individual in front of him and into the floor. He grimaced when he realized the individual's body collided with his coffee table before falling short into the carpet. Ouch, that has to hurt.

"Alfred!" he heard the British man groan with pain. It was only then did he realize that England had slept over for the night. He watched drearily as England hauled himself up with one arm and shot him a steely glare, "What the bloody hell are you playing at you half-witted bastard!" If England wasn't shorter than him, he would have cowered in fear.

America gave him a half-crooked smile and said, "My bad Iggy! I forgot you slept over!" He held up his hands in apology, afraid that somehow England would jump and beat him with his rock hard scones. Now those were weapons of mass destruction.

However, he was only met face first with a soda can England had retrieved from the floor. "Shut it you overbearing prat!" England growled as he pushed himself up, "You've done this in on purpose!" He accused, testing out his left arm. He scowled when he realized it was dislocated from his shoulder. He sent another glare at the American's direction, along with a few colorful names.

"Hey!" America said weakly, "I said I'm sorry."

"Sorry won't cut it! Honestly Alfred, I question the way you treat your guests!"

"Awe come on Iggy, I didn't mean it. You just took me by surprise!"

"Shut up!" As England fixed his dislocated arm, America only sat and stared. It wasn't like he wasn't concerned, but these are trivial matters to people like England and him. Sure it hurt, but it wasn't something that they couldn't handle. They've endured far worse than this after all.

"So," America quipped up brightening the mood, "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Anything but a burger," England grumbled.

"Well we can still go to M-"

"I do not want to see that fat enriched clown so early in the morning Alfred," was England's short reply. He gingerly rolled his shoulder forwards and back, trying to soothe out his dislocated arm, "A good cup of tea is suitable enough for breakfast. You haven't gotten any I presume?"

America's grin faltered only for a little before clapping his hands, "Okay! Dunkin' Donuts it is!" he responded happily, "That's cool too!" England's frown deepened for a moment before he let out a sigh. Better than eating whatever was stored in America's refrigerator. Even if it was all sugar and calories. Shrugging, he shoved the American out of the way and made a bee line for the bathroom. Better to use it now, rather than later.

It was only after they drank their morning brew did both nations have energy to carry off a decent conversation. England glanced over at the American, who was busy playing with his jelly filled donut, and made a face. Childish as always. "Now then Alfred," he began, "regarding last night..."

"Hm?" Alfred hummed as he stuck a straw into the middle of the jelly doughnut, "Oh hey Iggy look! I can drink it now!" He awarded a childish grin from across the table and gingerly sucked on the straw before making a disappointed face, "Awe, it didn't work."

Crossly England slapped Alfred's hand away snapping, "Stop it this instant you prat! You aren't a child and that's disgusting!" He glared as the American pouted for a minute and ignored him, "Alfred you -" He was cut off when the American took one giant bite out of the mistreated doughnut and shined his jelly tinted teeth his direction. He felt himself groan and sink into the palm of his hand, "I've utterly failed raising haven't I?" He muttered to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing," The English man barked briskly, "Anyhow, Alfred about last night..."

"Oh that...what did I tell you?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten already?"

"Yeah, right, see I kept thinking the whole thing was a big dream and all so..."

Arthur sighed leaning back against his seat. He blew on his hot tea for a moment before glancing up. To be perfectly honest, he was almost glad the nation has forgotten what happened. "Well what do you remember?," he tried to clarify. As he took a sip he made a face and immediately reached for the sugar.

He watched as America's face morphed into one of slight seriousness. He wiped away the crumbs around his mouth with the back of his hand and took a moment to contemplate. "Well, I remember you singing," he concluded after a moment, "and you totally killed that lullaby man. You should record it ya know, that way parents could use it to scare away pedos or something."

Deciding to ignore the nation's comment, England pressed forward. "And nothing after that?" He leaned forward raising an eyebrow.

America cocked his head for a moment, trying to remember if he had a dream or not. He shook his head and shrugged. "I think I had a dream but I don't really remember it," he finished with a swig of his coffee. He turned his attention to the cup of tea England had and muttered under his breath, "I don't get how you like that stuff."

"This 'stuff' is perfectly delicious mind you," England retaliated back, "unlike that addictive brew you gulp down ever so often." He clicked his tongue. He never truly understood what the value of coffee was. It wasn't as nutritious as tea and certainly the taste isn't something one would relish so easily. Well then again so was tea, but of course it depended on the tea you drank. He nodded his head. Tea still wins in that case.

"Well I still don't like tea," was America's final answer as he sipped his drink.

"No need to remind me you git," England snapped, feeling like they've entered dangerous waters. America kept silent as well, understanding the situation. Even so, England felt stung by the silence. As he leaned forward, he winced at the pain that situated itself on his gut. With a silent grunt, he moved into a more comfortable position. As the nation in front of him began to talk, he found himself glaring harder and harder. The pain he felt wasn't exactly his fault, but at the same time it really was all America's fault.

* * *

><p><em>When Arthur awoke, he wasn't quite so sure what was happening. With a half-conscious glance around the room, he realized that he's fallen asleep in America's living room. Or at least he ventured to guess that this was in fact a living room to begin with. He looked down and was mildly surprised to find America sleeping in his arms. Even more so, he leaned his head back into his left shoulder as he sighed in content. England found himself cracking a rare smile. It was a rare occurrence when Alfred managed to make himself look cute rather than the impish, obnoxious looking boor he was.<em>

_However, that doesn't change the fact America was heavy. He stood a good head taller than him if he actually bothered to straighten his horrid posture, and was rather weighty to begin with. Despite his constant paranoia of gaining weight, he held a good portion of toned muscle and rather sturdy bones. In short, America was crushing his left shoulder something fierce._

_With a hefty shrug, he managed to transfer the nation's head into a pillow before heaving himself up. Relieving his abused shoulder, he trailed into the linen closet where he was sure America stored blankets. He was mildly surprised when he found it neater than expected. Rather, it was neatly stacked and put away with care. Another rare smile crept into his face when he realized that most of the blankets bore each state's selected seal. Nodding slightly, he grabbed for one that held the colors of the American flag and trotted over to the sleeping nation in the other room._

_Before he could enter the living room, he was greeted by soft whimpers. If it wasn't for his acute hearing he wouldn't have heard it at all. However, he caught it. It was very soft, almost like a whisper in the night. If he was a stranger to Alfred, he wouldn't know what it was at all. But being the nation's guardian he knew exactly what it was. It only happened during those horrible nights. Ever since the lad was given to his care, he learned to differentiate Alfred's actions. There certainly was a difference between his known 'death cry' to small smoldering whimpers. The whimpers meant something worse entirely. But that was in the past of course. He hasn't seen Alfred whimper like that in decades. It was true he mourned constantly, a little too much actually, whenever he sees his country suffering. Of course, he was one of the few that were privileged enough to know such information._

_As he loomed overhead, he readied himself to comfort to poor lad. "Now, now Alfred," he crooned softly as he went to smooth his hair. He leaned over to snatch away the skewed glasses over the nation's face and set it down on the table. What he didn't expect was Alfred's blue eyes to shot open, as he rigidly sat up. "Wha-" he gasped softly. His hand traveled upward, latching itself on to his dress shirt. Arthur gently grasped the shaking hand, patting it slightly for comfort._

_"Come now Alfred..." he whispered soothingly. He tried gently to push him down, intent on tucking him in once more. However, America only shook his head as he gasped for air. With a quick glance, his body jolted upwards as he scrambled to regain his bearings. England let go of his hand and reached up to soothe to boy who began to recoil from his touch. Suddenly, he gave England a rough shove sending him toppling backwards and into the floor. "Alfred!" he cried out in anger._

_He was met with a face that made him jump. Alfred looked down at him venomously, eyes narrowing in disgust. England felt his blood ran cold. Alfred never looked at him, at anyone, with such raw, unheeded hatred. It was like he was shot with an icy bullet, the cold creeping from his chest to the rest of his body. He shivered as America tensely leaned forward. His jaw clenched, his mouth set at a thin line, and his eyes glaring cold daggers as if he was ready to kill him. In the dark his face almost looked demon like, the face of an avenging killer. "You," he rasped out violently, "You!"_

_"Alfred-" He voice left him when Alfred suddenly jerked forward, landing his foot on his chest. He gasped in pain, feeling the heel strike his ribs. Alfred made a face, scrunching his nose in utter revulsion before stomping his stomach. He let out a sharp cry, scrambling his hands to try to push away the damning foot. No avail. "Alfred!"_

_"Don't call me that you!" he heard America shout back as he rewarded him with another blow, "How dare you show your face to me! How dare you! Haven't you done enough!" The nation's lip shook, blue eyes darkening over. Silent tears fell from his eyes, ignored as he stomped on his oppressor. He only stopped to lean forward once more and examine England's pained face, "You've taken everything from me! My home! My friends!" He rewarded England with sharp kick on the side, "My mother! MY Mother! How could you!" England stayed silent, teeth clenching in pain. He let out a small groan, hands clutching his stomach._

_America watched in silence, ceasing his actions. He took a sharp intake of breath and choked as tears welled up even faster. As if suddenly loosing all strength, America fell slack against the couch. He bought his legs up, placing his chin on his knee in a fetal position. Finally, he allowed himself to weep. He shook uncontrollably, grasping hard at the leather couch that he left broke through it. "I..I-I...I t-trusted you..." he hiccuped, "Y-you said everything would b-be alright..."_

_It only then did England open his eyes, choosing to silently sit up and ignore the pain. Honestly, he was at lost at what to do. He was torn. One side of him was ready to tear the nation into pieces, beating him bloody for causing unwanted pain. Another spoke of his duties as Alfred's parental guardian. His father. True, Alfred has long since left and grown into an adult nation. Yet, there was no excuses in the duties of parenthood. Once a parent, always a parent. And so, what was he suppose to do? Should he excuse his half-witted impulsive attack and comfort him? Should he be play a hard line first? First and foremost, what the bloody hell is Alfred sputtering in the first place? Who is this person? What has he done to him? Was he the cause of loosing his mother? What did he do? More importantly, What should he do?_

_As he heaved himself up, he resolved to wing it. After all, parenthood really was about improvisation. "Alfred," he began as he reached out to the nation. His hand was swatted away much to his dismay._

_"Don't touch me!" Alfred barked. He lifted his eyes to meet England's own weary gaze. Stubbornly, he wiped away his tears and glared. He oped his mouth and abruptly closed it to gather his thoughts. England remained seated on the floor in front of him. He was vigilant now, ready to react. With a shaky breath Alfred asked in a low voice, "My mother trusted you," he hissed, "She trusted you and you betrayed her! You and your men are to blame! All of it was your fault! All of it!"_

_England weakly responded, "Alfred I-"_

_"Don't call me that!" Alfred roared back, "You have no right to call me that!" He pushed himself back, trying to flee from England as much as he could, "You killed her! You killed all of them! You're a murderer!"_

_"Alfred!" England cried in protest. That comment stung him. Partly because it was true. Certainly, he wasn't quite sure about what Alfred was speaking of. However, his comment was a hard blow. He was a nation after all. It was his civil duty to protect what was his. To protect himself, to protect his children, his people. There were times when the had to kill._

_"MURDERER!" Alfred shouted back with equal passion. England chose to stay quiet now, biting his lip in frustration. He yearned to hit the lad, somehow knock him to his senses. It was clear that he's lost it. He took note that the nation's eyes were almost permanently narrowed, as if he was shielding himself from the light. He took a quick glance of the glasses on the table and connected the dots. Is he that blind!_

_"Alfred...I d-"_

_America only shook with rage and sorrow, completely ignoring him now. He began to whimper once more, mindlessly wiping away his tears. He muttered to himself under his breath, his mouth forming unheard worms. In the dark, Arthur swore he read his lips repeatedly mouth murderer. Tiredly, he shook his head and leveled himself to look America straight in the eye. "Look, Alfred. I haven't got a clue on your charade, but please stop this now."_

_America looked away, unaware of England's words. He gripped hard on his shins, almost drawing blood. "I..." he weeped, "I...murdered her too...didn't I?"_

_England froze completely, his heart almost freezing along with him. He felt the blood run away from his face at the realization. Startled he leaned forward, intent on looking at the nation in the eye. "I...I beg your pardon?" he choked out._

_America buried his face in his knees once more. England could barely hear his muffled cry as he answered. "I k-killed her...it was because of me w-wasn't it?" He let out another sharp breath. England watched as America went from pure sobbing to outright hyperventilation. America took haphazard gulps of air, his throat constricting almost painfully. Sharply England took the nation's shoulder with one hand and used the other to wipe away the tears._

_"You listen to me now young man! You did not kill your mother you hear me! You hear me!"_

_Alfred chose to stare back listlessly, scrunching his eyes to steady his blurry vision. He looked away for a moment and rasped out weakly, "What did she tell you?" He stared back at him expectantly, ready to wring his neck for an answer._

_England stayed there like a gaping fish. What was he suppose to say? He hasn't an ounce of knowledge as to what was running through America's brain at the moment. "Excuse me?" he chose to answer._

_With a frustrated growl, America redirected his venomous glower back at him. He grabbed Arthur's dress shirt once more with his left fist and clenched it tight."What did she tell you!" he pressed, "I saw you take her away to talk for awhile! She told you something! What did she say! What did my mother say to you!"_

_Deciding that it was far too long for him to be playing along with this charade, England let out an exasperated sighed and said, "Alfred! Now look! You've got the wrong man! I-"_

_"Shut up!" Alfred growled, "Shut up!"_

_"You moronic idiot!" England finally roared, seizing America's fist and trying to force it to uncurl away. He grimanced at the strength required to do such a task. It was true, America's strength seemed unsurpassed. Of course there were exceptions, but none so many. "I'm not who you think I am!" America only tightened his locked hold as he analyzed England's words._

_"What?"_

_England managed to unfurl the grip away from him with a blast of his strength and cried out as he stood, "It's me you bloody git! It's Arthur Kirkland!"_

_"What!" America's voice cracked, going into a higher tone._

_"England you damn fool! England!"_

_"Don't lie to me! I know who you are! DON'T LIE TO ME!" Aggressively, he began to shake the poor nation. England's head rolled back and forth listlessly, as he was unable to stop America's onslaught. As if by instinct, his hand crawled his way into America's neck and grabbing hold of it. He held on tight, as the rough shoving was gaining more momentum._

_"ENOUGH!" He cried back. Using his other hand he formed it into a fist and aimed straight for the America's right temple. With a sickening thump, America fell sideways into the couch leaving England gasping for air in front of him. He cracked his neck and whispered as he surveyed the unmoving nation, "Fuck!"_

* * *

><p>"Ya know," America bought up after a pregnant pause, "I kinda have a dull headache. Weird huh?" Gingerly he massaged his forehead before gulping down the rest of the coffee. England found himself nodding in satisfaction. As you should, you git. "What?" America asked raising an eyebrow.<p>

"Nothing nothing," England dismissed rather quickly, waving it away with his hands. America shrugged and went for another doughnut onslaught. England crinkled his nose in disgust. He'll have to re-train the lad to at least eat like a normal being before starting proper etiquette once more.

In the midst of his pondering, he almost jumped when he felt a rather large hand circle his way around his chest from the back, fondling on his shirt's buttons. "Ah Angleterre," he heard a low whisper moan into his left ear, "Tu me manques. You look exquisite as always." The heavy French accented man leaned his chin atop England's head and shot Alfred a grin as he managed to unbutton England's shirt and sliding it off, "You too Amérique." England wretched at the situation. Good god, what the hell was happening!

America stopped short from chewing on his doughnut to look up. His face morphed into one of disgust and he jerked himself away from them slightly, "Dude!" he cried out, "I'm eating here!" To reinforce his point, he waved his half eaten doughnut. France grin only intensified.

At the same time England's hand flew up to smack the French nation in the face crying out, "Frog! It's too early to create an international scandal!" He picked the nation's hand away from his chest as if it were diseased and threw it to the side. Swiftly, he buttoned his shirt grumbling profanities. Damn that stupid git Francis.

"Forget Scandal!" America protested, "What about committing abuse? I don't need to see you two sexing it up where I eat! If you're horny go to the dumpster outside!"

France only rubbed his abused face and pouted, "Really Angleterre," he sulked, "Did you have to hit the face? It's very delicate you know."

"It deserves to be burned," England hissed back.

"Really?" Francis smirked pulling England closer so he could whisper, "Because I could have sworn I remember you kissing this said face while I pounded you over and over again in-"

"Dude!" America cried out, fingers flying into his ear, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I don't need to hear about your damn sex life!" His let out a small whine when he realized that Francis and Arthur were utterly ignoring him. Arthur's face turned bright red, sputtering out protests. He repeatedly kept on hitting the nation as he pleaded him to stop, while the other in turn revealed more than he should have.

"You were screaming Oh Francis! Yes! Yes! Right th-" France was cut of short when a powdered doughnut collided with his face, turning his cheek into a sugary puff. The powdered doughnut then fell into England's hair making the other nation moan in frustration shouting out, "Why me?"

Following after was a string of apologies, which took both of them by surprise. America would never apologized, especially for something like this. However, much to his dismay, Francis realized it was not him nor Arthur who America was apologizing to."I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I know I saved you for last but certain situations called for a sacrifice and-"

"Alfred!" Francis snarled as he wiped the powdered sugar off his cheek, "I believe it is not the doughnut who you should be apologizing to!"

America stopped short and raised an eyebrow. Yeah right. With a quick flick of his wrist, he chucked the remaining half eaten jelly doughnut at their direction. Oddly enough, both nations expected him to do so and ducked, dodging the evil abomination. Unfortunately, the thing still found a standing target. A small squeak was heard behind them. "M-maple!" a timid, quivering voice whimpered as the doughnut found it's place on his face.

"Ah Mattie!" America's face broke into a grin and he rushed forward with some napkins, "My bad but it needed to be done!" He offered the napkins to the Canadian nation, even blotting some of the jelly from his cheek. Before Canada could even open his mouth, America ushered him to walk the other way. "Go, go, go! Go over there before they corrupt you too!" He shot the older nations a face, before running off to a table further away.

Francis sighed as he watched them, "Really now. That boy has to learn that sex is a natural p-" Before he could finish, England awarded him with a sharp elbow on the gut. He gasped in shock, recoiling away. "Pourqoui Angleterre!" he gasped out.

England watched him bend over with a revengeful smirk playing at his lips. "Because," he said with contempt, "You are an idiot." He watched as America successfully cleaned out Canada's face, who in turn protested silently. America only laughed at him before shoving the nation's glasses back at his face and dragging him over to the counter to order some food. "Honestly, I..." he trailed off when he felt Francis fondle with this buttons once more, "Frog!"

"Angleterre, your chest is bruised," he stated bluntly making the other stop, "I saw it for but a few seconds but it I am sure it was. Fighting with Scott again?"

Grumpily England wretched himself away and snorted, "Of course not."

"Then it was Alfred?" Francis gasped, "Don't tell me you have turned to him for sexual relief!" With that he earned yet another smack, turning his cheeks rather sore and red. My he was getting abused all over today. It was kind of...kinky.

"Don't be ridiculous you oaf!" England chastised, his face turning another interesting shade of red, "Don't turn everything into a complicated porno! We don't need your bumbling mind staining what is left of my precious sanity!" He slapped the nation's hand away disgusted.

"Then why..."

England cut him off with a sigh as he sat back down dejected. France raised an eyebrow before pulling up a seat beside him. Casting tired eyes at the other bumbling idiot across the room he muttered, "Alfred's been having nightmares again."

"Et?" Francis urged him to continue on, "Everybody gets nightmares."

"Yes, but not ones that turn you into a weeping, hyperventilating mental patient!"

"Eh..what?"

"Exactly what I said Francis. You should have seen him! He was sobbing and gasping and hyperventilating and shaking and...and...he's lost it! He's utterly lost it!" England finished with a dramatic sigh. His face sank into his hand, covering his tired eyes. He shook his head and muttered out in a muffled whisper, "I have no idea what to do with the lad. I can't bear putting him in a mental institution and with this situation I doubt rehab or even shrinks are any better..."

Francis kept silent as he studied the said nation. "He looks perfectly normal now Angleterre. He's as obnoxious as always."

"Yes yes, after I whacked him the head," England rebutted back.

France had to bite back a laugh. "Que? You hit him?"

England grumbled in annoyance and said, "Of course I hit him! I prefer having my head attached to my body you know." He turned his gaze to France, who held back a few chuckles. He frowned and said, "It's not funny frog."

"Right, of course," Francis straightened himself up and altered his face into a serious expression, "Do tell, what was his nightmare about?"

England responded with another annoyed sigh. "I haven't got a clue really. It was about...this man I suppose. Apparently he's resembled me, perhaps. He kept on shouting how it was his fault, kept on saying he's murdered her. Good god, you should have seen him Francis. He was frantic! He was...he was psychopathic!"

"Her?"

England locked eyes with him, "His mother."

"Ta mere?"

"Mother," England reinforced, "He kept on saying that I've killed her. And then...he said that he's killed her too..." He trailed of as he wandered in his thoughts. Honestly, he didn't know what that meant. Was that from the guilt? The sorrow? How should he remedy that? What to do if it happens again? "I..Francis. You met America before I did didn't you? When you went on with a party there for trading beaver fur was it?"

Francis bit his lip in concentration. Honestly that was ages ago, centuries actually. "Yes," he said after a while, "I met him then. He was alone though...wandering I think."

"And you haven't seen anyone with him? A woman!"

Sadly he shook his head. "Non Angletere, he was alone. He was wandering in the field I remember. He was playing with a small bunny, poking it with a small daisy I think. When he heard me, he ran off just like the little bunny. A shame really."

"Oh."

"But," he piped up with a sudden grin making England perk up, "Finland should know more than I oui?"

* * *

><p>"Good god lad!" England gasped as America quickly accelerated and overtook the car in front of him, "Why don't you just go ahead and get all of us killed why don't you!" He settled himself back to his backseat, fearfully clutching at the seat belt, strapped securely on his chest, for his dear life. Honestly, America's driving was going to get all of them killed! How in the blazes all mighty did he attain a driver's license!<p>

"America only glanced at him with a cheeky grin in the rear view mirror, "Awe come on Iggy," he said, "you know you can't die that easily!"

"That doesn't mean I would enjoy feeling pain either," he retorted distastefully. America only laughed harder as he swerved hard to the left for a lane merge. The action caught the passengers unaware and sent them flying. Canada let out a small whimper as his body slid to the left only to be restrained by his seat belt. Kumajiro fearfully clung to his clothes, her claws pinching into his skin. England found himself rocketing his head against the glass window with a hard slam before Franc's own underdeveloped cranium smacked on the other side of his head. "Alfred!" he growled pushing the whining French man off him.

America only smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy that Iggy," he teased cheekily, "seeing as you're quite the masochist after all."

"Oui Angleterre," France purred after it all, "You are quite the...masochist." Gently, he toyed with England's tie.

"Can it you prune!" England hissed, edging his body away from the perverted old fool.

"I'm hurt Angleterre," France pretended to pout.

England only scoffed, "Good, perhaps you'd drop dead afterwards."

America took a glance at Matthew who seemed to be listening intently to the conversation behind them with a worried gaze. With that he took it upon himself to interject, "Now now children," he said mockingly, "You're scaring the child." He indicated to a red-faced Canada who muttered something unintelligible.

England stopped for a minute to asses those words, "Don't you start lecturing me my boy."

America opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by France who began to chuckle, "How precious, calling Amérique your petite fils! Just like my precious Matthew!" He leaned over to pat the stunned nation's head, who sat shot gun in front of him.

"Papa..." Canada gave a small whine, burying his face in Kumajiro's white fur.

"He-" England sputtered from the comment as his face turned interesting shades of red from embarrassment, " I...well...o-of course," he grunted clearing his throat, "I am his guardian after all."

"His papa actually," France finished for him. America once again let out an effortless grin at the comment before glancing at the time. Well, shit. Realizing they were already ten minutes late he accelerated faster, causing England to cry out in protest.

"Alfred! You'll get us arrested!"

America veered hard left, almost bypassing an exit before responding, "Nah, it's cool! We'll be there in a jiffy!" As if an ironic twist of fate, they found sirens blazing behind them with the police signaling them to pull over. America let out a pout, glancing at his rear view mirror. "Awe, I thought we'd make it." England sighed, pulling his face to the tight scowl. He chose to stay silent, looking outside the windows forming. Serves the damn idiot right.

"Ah, Amérique ," France began to lean forward slightly, "Can you not reason with the police and let us pass? We're in a tight schedule and can't afford missing more."

"Nope," was America's joval reply, leaving all the nations stumped. Was he deliberately making them all late?

"Pourquoi Amérique ? You are les Etats-Unis non? Surely there is-"

America only grinned before shaking his head. He watched as the officer got out of his car to approach them before answering, "Exactly why! In America everybody must follow the law, even America! It's the rule of law!" He pointed to himself offhandedly before pressing down his window to address the officer, "Good morning officer!" he greeted brightly, "I apologize for speeding."

* * *

><p>"Never fear!" America's booming voice vibrated as he slammed open the heavy oak doors, "America is here!" He scanned the other nations staring back, almost in boredom. His face brightened when he spotted Germany who was leading the meeting. "Yo Germany!" he called, "Good for you to start!"<p>

Before Germany could even open his mouth, the three other nations came bursting in panting. "You..." England wheezed out pointing an accusing finger at America, "You've gotten your car totaled and you expected us to run the whole length of the way! Are you mad!"

America shrugged almost considering the question before bluntly answering, "No I'm not angry."

"You're an idiot!" England coughed out, blindly wiping the perspiration away from his face. He dared to glance at the other two fatigued nations beside him. France's long hair seemed disheveled, wet and limp. The sweat trickled down his jaw and his chest heaved with exertion, but he stood straight refusing to let his tired form slump in front of the amused audience. Canada was another image all together. His arms shook, fatigued from carrying Kumajiro, his face obscured by the fuzzy creature. His glasses fogged his radiating body heat clashing with the air-conditioned room. Silently, he panted as sweat slid down his red face. He dared not think what he may look like. It was anything opposite of how perfectly groomed America looked. He seemed fine, though sweating minimally. You had to be close to even notice. Despite his fly away clothes, his appearance didn't change. The git.

Before America could retort, Germany chose to interject with a small but deliberate cough tot gain attention. "Yes well please take your seats. We have yet to discuss more important matters. The first issue is global warming."

"Great!" America cheered as he ran to his seat. He stopped short as he sat to give Mexico a at in the back for hello. She offered him a small smile and he said, "So how are we gonna build that robet then? Japan? You got any idea?" He stared straight at the Japanese man who was twiddling with his pen.

England shook his head, before occupying his own seat. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and tried to made himself look presentable by patting the sweat away. As he did, he found he was conveniently seated right across from a merry Finland who waved hello. He gave a curt nod and silently mouthed, "I need to speak with you later." Finland, adept to reading lips like all other nations, only nodded.

The hours progressed fast enough for England's liking, having taken a decent record of notes and shoving them into his breast pocket. Normally, he would meticulously categorize in his suitcase, but he'd rather keep it in his person for later consideration. It had too much important information relating to the global market which he liked to run pass Parliament. In the meantime, he cornered Finland to a desolate corner ignoring the ruckus behind him. Finland almost gulped in worry when France also chose to come as well, both veering at him in all seriousness. "What can I help you with?" he chose to say.

England chose his words carefully and chose to begin with, "Well you see Finland...Tino..ah," he choked midway realizing that he's got absolutely nothing to say. Rather he wasn't sure how to word what he wanted to say, "About...America." Upon hearing his name, Finland instinctively looked back to America who was busy labeling the recorded audio he took of the meeting. It was his way of 'taking notes.'

France cut him off deliberately getting to the point, "Do you remember meeting Amérique, Tino? You know, the first time?"

Finland's eyebrows shot up in surprise before creasing in curiosity. "Yes, of course."

"And?" England prodded stepping impossibly closer to him. Feeling invaded, Finland chose to take a step back and hit the wall with a small thump. He was uncomfortable in this position, being interrogated and almost being face to face with these two. Particularly Francis over here.

"Oh...well..."

* * *

><p><em>"Sir?" Finland almost cringed at the man calling him. Almost. With a mastered smile, he looked up from the paper he's been working on and nodded to the man to let him speak. "The men, they...they've returned!"<em>

_Finland found himself raising an eyebrow, feeling doubtful shock. Curiously he peered from the window of the makeshift 'office' to spot the truth. Indeed, they've returned. They were battered, fatigued, and bloody but quite happy to be alive. He put down the papers he held and nodded to the man who ran in, "It seems so. Gather them after they're comfortable. I want to speak them."_

_"Aye sir," was the final reply before leaving as quickly as he came. He stopped short at the door and added, "Sir, I forgot to mention. They...ah...they bought an unknown boy with them." s_

_"An Indian?"_

_"No sir."_

_"No?"_

_"European sir, by the looks of him Bloodied and unconscious sir, but breathing."_

_Finland almost perked up at the news, making this venture even more interesting than he would have thought. "Interesting," he muttered, "I'll be sure to check on him later then." With that he gave the man permission to go, as he sat thoughtfully placing his chin on entwined fingers. Interesting, indeed to find a European boy. Is he from another settlement? Impossible, they were miles away. Does that mean that other nations were quickly colonizing? He clicked his tongue in distaste. If he knew any better, with Spain already venturing off down south England and France were ready to lunge from the north. No, the possibility was imminent. "Of course it was," he muttered silently._

_It was after lunch, midday, when the men marched into his office. They stood, uncomfortable to be in a higher presence than their own governor, but much humbled and eased by Finland's warm smile. "Gentlemen," he greeted, "I applaud you all for coming back. The journey back must have been treacherous. I'm sorry I haven't any chairs for you to sit in."_

_A number of replies were given before Finland said, "I trust you all had your fillings worth. I apologize we don't have as much food as I would have liked." Again a murmur of yes followed by great thanks, "Now, may I know what happened? We assumed you all died when you didn't return after a months time."_

_"Aye sir," one man, Jokela, who he assumed led the group stepped up to answer, " You see we were attacked by a rival tribe. They managed to kill our Indian guides before we could reach the trading village and the rest ran. So...we lost our way and managed to find a neighboring village."_

_"Oh good," Finland muttered, motioning them to continue._

_"Two days after a woman arrived with the boy," the man recalled, "She seemed to lead the village. And...the boy was her son, she said. But the damnest thing is, they don't look nothing alike. The boy was distinctly European sir. Like...he...he looks like you." Finland could almost smile. Well that was something._

_Jokela took it as a chance to keep talking, "And see he seemed excited to see. Couldn't understand him but the translator said he never saw people like him before. I thought maybe he was left by an old convoy or something, but didn't seem to be the case. He was speaking their language, he knew their customs..."_

_"So you're telling me he was an Indian? By blood?"_

_"I don't think so sir. But he's not from Europe either. I tried telling him about Europe, showing him all these things thinking maybe he forgot about them but he's never seen any of them before. He's never seen silk or cotton or nothing," Jokela replied. That left Finland reeling. Alright, if he's not from Europe then where is he from. If he looks like him, he's damn blonde alright. Perhaps he's from England's colony Australia? No, that didn't even make any sense._

_"And...why is he with you? If he seems oriented with the Indians?"_

_Jokela began to look at his feet, fidgeting ever so slightly. "He was the only survivor sir," he muttered._

_Finland leaned forward slightly, making the man look forward, "Survivor? Of what?"_

_Jokela shifted slightly, choosing his words carefully, "Ah well the village was caught up in an epidemic before we got there. It steadily got worse and I asked to see the symptoms. They all look like they're dying of measles sir. They symptoms are all there. I've been told that it was a curse from god, so we wanted to leave as soon as possible. But you see, we found the source of the epidemic sir."_

_Finland rustled his seat, his mind already forming a possibility, " Let me guess, it was a traded item yes?"_

_The men stared at him slightly impressed before nodding. Jokela coughed and said, "Yes sir. Blankets they traded. Seemed that whoever traded with them infected them with measles. And they have no resistance sir. " Finland nodded, almost feeling remorse. Much like the black plague, he decided. The troubling part was tracing exactly who would be sick enough to do it._

_"So we..." the men coughed, "We did what we could sir. As best we could."_

_Finland found himself gaping, "You shot them?" he gasped out. He was dumbfounded with shock and anger. The men hung back watching his face changed. He clenched his jaw, drawing his lip into a tight fine line. He awarded them with a solemn look, masking the look of almost certain disgust mixed with understanding sorrow. His mind reeled. To kill them, to shoot a village down, was it that bad?_

_"It was all we could do sir," Jokela muttered slightly, "They're dying in numbers. There were about half a dozen people well enough to carry out a burial, that is until they got sick." Finland nodded. It was that bad. To shoot them down, perhaps as barbaric as it sounds, it was an easy way to go. To leave, in just a split moment rather than to live half alive in agony. Disease was a menace bigger than any human._

_"Then the odd thing happened sir. The woman you see, she was one of the few that didn't get sick. We didn't shoot her sir, we told them we would help. I don't think she understood, but she didn't get in the way. But when we saw her, she was dripping blood sir. It was like blood just rained on her, even when she was unharmed. She was screaming, some language that we couldn't understand. But she was still standing..."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"I don't know sir. She just began to bleed and scream. I swear we didn't hurt her, she just began to bleed. And she stood there sir, in front of me and she begged me to take her son. She was angry, in tears sir, and I felt horrible but she wouldn't let me touch her. But she said, that if we leave and take her son, then everyone will be fine. So...we left." It was then when Finland officially found this ordeal the more interesting. Complicated and endearingly hypnotizing. Not that it was the least bit horrifying to begin with but this woman was something else._

_"Is she a nation?" he wondered to himself. What happened was a phenomena that happened to 'people' like him. It was something unique to say the least. It happened to him a number of times. In the presence of a blood bath, like a massacre or rather a war, they experience the blood being shed. Rather it was like their body turned crimson, weeping for the shed blood of their people. It happened in times of distress, when a nation could do nothing. It was a gruesome sight really and from a experience very painful. It wasn't the induced pain felt by the fallen victims that usually broke nations, it was the helplessness they felt._

_"And the boy?" he asked._

_"He struggled sir, but he's with Mäkelä's place right now. He's suffered a broken arm, the poor thing, when he tried to run away. But we couldn't just leave him there all alone. He's very small sir, a very small child. He could have been eaten." That was a final reply, leaving them staring at each other uneasily. With a sigh, Finland waved them goodbye._

_He found himself marching over to meet this sad little boy personally. What he found took him by surprise. Little was hardly the world to describe this boy. He was a baby, looking as if he just learned to run and talk. The baby fat still clung to his adorable little face, making him almost cuddly to look at. If he wasn't a man who was leading his envoy, he would have scooped the poor thing from the floor and coo and cuddle him due to his irresistible cuteness. "Hello," he greeted._

_Immediately, the little boy's attention snapped up to see him, watching the towering Nation above him. If Finland knew any better, he could sworn to god and all above that this boy will grow up to be a very handsome man. Despite the quaking fear he radiated, it didn't diminish the glow of his golden hair, the softness of his skin, or the unwavering blue color of his eyes. He was beautiful. He frowned slightly, deciding right away he didn't enjoy the expression the boy was displaying._

_He was in fetal position, shaking arms wrapped delicately around his legs. He placed his chin just above his knees looking up. Despite his feeble position, Finland detected strong hostility. He held an expression of fury, eyes glinting with furious despair (something that deeply disturbed him), and biting his lip hard. Still, despite this hostile gaze, he held a hint of complete helpless sorrow. He held back tears, refusing to cry to these unknown people._

_Silently, America decided that he hated these new people. Almost immediately he regretted ever wondering anything about these people that looked like him. They were monsters, the whole lot of them. He wished all of it was gone and he was back home, in his mother's arms, where he knew that he would be infinitely safe. This was a never ending nightmare. "Leave me alone," he spat out in his own language, knowing very well that this foreigner would never understand him. Gingerly, he rubbed his injured arm wincing as he did._

_"You're hurt," Finland offered leaning down to inspect the injury, "Come now, let me treat it." He stopped short when a sharp slap caused him to withdraw back to nurse his own wound, "It's okay. I won't hurt you." America only hissed at him, sending him a venomous glare. Nobody was to touch him. He looked around to survey his surroundings when he spotted the forest clearing. He let in a sharp intake of breath. Any second now, he would bolt, dashing off to the woods with no desire to reappear._

_Finland, unfortunately, had other plans. As gentle as possible, he lifted the boy up, trying to get him to stand and follow him. He let America straighten, allowing him to observe the boy. He was dressed in Indian garb, covered in dirt and soot. When he leaned closer he observed dry blood caked on his stomach, splattering down to his legs and lower back. Was he hurt? The boy looked at him bitterly, daring him to touch him just so he could feel the backlash._

_"Let me..." he trailed off reaching for America's left shoulder. He wanted to see the broken arm, to see if how long it should take to heal. However, upon the sight of a hand reaching out to him America panicked. He tensed, ready to dash of to the direction of the woods. America disappeared from his vision and bolted like a frightened rabbit. His eyes were wide now, breathing heavy, and teeth gritted in all seriousness._

_"Hey!" he cried out. Upon the sudden movement, he grabbed America's arm out of impulse. America gasped feeling his broken arm tugged hard, basically ripping out from his arm socket at the force he hard exerted with his sudden run. Finland flinched, at the sickening crack that was heard from under his hands. He felt and immediate feeling of complete horror as he sputtered out unintelligible apologies to the small child. However, America beat him to it. He began to scream, wailing at the top of his lungs, as the steady stream of tears finally fell._

_"I'm so sorry!" Finland wailed out trying to stoop down and scoop the tiny little boy in his arms. Alas, America wouldn't stop. He screamed and screamed, letting his figure crumble to the floor. He fell back and cried, his voice feeling strained every minute. He didn't stop, however, letting his tiny little voice fill the silent day. He just wouldn't stop._

* * *

><p>The drive home was unnerving at the very least. Really, America felt...smothered, yes that's the word he was looking for. He tapped the driver wheel, keeping a steady eye on the road. Once or twice he glanced at the rear view mirror to see England and France staring back. Normally he wouldn't mind, rather he wouldn't care, but the staring was beginning to feel unsettling. He would let it slide if it was France, for obvious reasons knowing his nature, but England too? Really the staring was bothersome, it was as if they half expected some deformed growth to pop on his face at any time. He almost groaned when he caught England leaning forward wistfully. Hell, he wasn't even blinking. Okay, was there really something on his face? His hair? His being? Was there a planted bomb some place? Did they find out about his late night escapades?<p>

Canada who surprisingly was oblivious to this atmosphere, that or he chose to ignore it, muttered out, "So...Al..."

America perked up, almost grinning from ear to ear from excitement. Here we go, at least Mattie was here to deflate the moment. "Hm?" he urged, "What's up Mattie?"

"Ah..the potluck tonight...Gilbert will be there and...," Canada uttered turning his head away to watch the passing surroundings, "And I need you to p-promise that..."

He almost squeaked when America gave him a teasing shove before gleefully saying, "It's okay Mattie! I promise I'll guard the door when you get Prussia cornered! Just as long as you don't tell me the details on how it went, I'd have to kill you!" Canada turned magenta the comment, sputtering at America's clear lack of brain cells.

"That's not what I meant!" he hollered softly, raising his voice as loud as a normal human talking. England had to admit, it was riveting to actually hear it, seeing as it's virtually unheard for a while now.

"Que!" France found himself gasping "Mon petite Matthew is dating that...thing!" His nose scrunched in distaste, almost shaking completely in disgust as he pictured the Prussian in his mind. Gilbert was a friend, a companion from his daring youth, but he was unsuitable for Matthew. Hell, he was unsuitable for almost everybody. To think they were together was almost impossible. He might as well mate with England, chain himself to a chastity belt, and proclaim himself a virgin if they were ever compatible.

"Gil...isn't a thing," Canada offered defensively, his vice lowering to it's normal silent octave. England found himself deflating, disappointed that he reverted back to his old voice. Now he'll have to crane his neck and ear to his direction just to hear him. No he was not old, good sir. Definitely not. He had perfectly healthy ear drums that cannot hear whatever the Canadian muttered simply because he was too quiet. That is all, thank you very much.

"You're right," America snorted, "He hasn't got a thing." His offhanded comment left all three nations dumbstruck. Rather, they weren't quite sure how to react to this random comment. A wholesome part of France yearned to laugh, but the rational part of his brain that held a hint of fondness for the said nation pointed out that Prussia had a "thing." A very big thing. A thing, might it remind him, that left him lamenting for weeks about his own pathetic size when he finally caught a glimpse of Prussia's "thing" when pissing next to him in a bush. He almost scowled at the thought. To think that...thing was defiling his charge. That was unacceptable! Unacceptable to the core! He huffed gruffly. It was forbidden! Forbidden I tell you!

Canada's reaction was predictable, almost boring, when he turned an unimaginable shade of red almost choking on his words. "Al!" he squeaked sending a well earned smack on his brother's right shoulder. America only chuckled pointing out the obvious lack of muscles his brother did not have. England was left to ponder and watch the scene, silently trying to ignore the fuming Francis next to him.

"How is it," he thought to himself, "that America could grow up acting like this when Finland said he was so...solemn?" He recalled Finland's account following his first meeting with America. To say the least, it was troublesome. At least that was how Finland worded it to be.

* * *

><p><em>"I am so sorry!" Finland whispered into the boy's tired ear. Four hours. Four hours of nonstop weeping following the incident. The boy just wouldn't stop. He stopped screaming after two hours thankfully, but Finland feared the little child had ruptured his vocal chords rather than give up screaming. It wasn't due to the lack of effort on his part. But he kept on crying, a shiny fat tear coming one after another, and it was ceaseless. He feared that the boy might choke suddenly if he wouldn't stop, which he came close to doing many times.<em>

_He managed to keep a firm hold on the child, in part as a means of maternal comfort as well as to stop him from hurting himself more. He was horrified when the boy almost clawed his eyes out when he turned around to find items to mend his arm. He wasn't quite sure what happened in those split seconds. He only watched the boy fall to the floor in helpless tears, partially due to his dislocated and broke arm. Finland terrified to the point of his own tears turned to search for items to make a crude sling, something to support the weight, something to lessen the pain. Really, anything that would be of any help._

_It was when he turned around did he jump in shock. In the midst of his shrill screaming, America used his mobile hand and viciously gripped at his closed eyes, his nails clinging n the sensitive skin of his eyelids and upper cheeks. "Stop! Stop!" Finland cried reverting back to his native tongue as he launched himself at the boy. His own gigantic hands trying their best to pry the offending hand away from his face. To his horror, the boy was stronger than he looked, and held an even stronger grip in retaliation. He watched as the little hands drew bloody, painfully pulling at the skin with every intent to rip them off._

_Finland's frantic hand pulled at the hand with all of his might, managing to withdraw them away before he could do anymore harm. Suddenly, with a burst of strength, the hand snatched itself away finding it's next target. It latched itself on America's golden hair, tugging on the abomination, tearing out handfuls of hair. Through it all, America let out terrified screams, eyes closed and unwilling to open. Perhaps ever again._

_It was only after a moment of struggle did Finland finally control the attacking hand, keeping it in his tight grip. His other hand snaked it's way to cup his trembling chin. "Please," he pleaded looking at the tiny little boy's screaming face, "please stop. Please..." He stroked the boy's soft cheeks, futilely wiping away the away the trail of tears and blood. He almost let out a crooked smile when the screaming ceased but dully noted that the screaming he heard had bee strained to begin with. It stopped with a choke and a cough, followed by pitiful hiccuping gasps._

_Taking a shaky breath, Finland stooped low to give the boy a small kiss on the forehead. Perhaps someday he may regret the action, to show weakness at the time when he was looked upon as a stern leader leading a venture in a land unknown, but today he allowed himself a soften. Perhaps it was just the sigh of the pitiful boy broken before him. Perhaps it was the urge to understand his background, who he is, who his mother was. Perhaps it was nothing at all but this sense of responsibility to do the correct action. For whatever motive he held to help his boy, he didn't know. So he scooped the shaking lad from the ground, careful of his wound. "It's alright," he whispered, "It's alright."_

_For whatever reason America chose to open his eyes to stare at the man he loathed and just met a few hours before. It was then when Finland felt a massive shock. A revelation. A motivation. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But looking into those sky blue pools, beaten, battered, and weary from a defeated fight, he fell in love. The sense of maternal commitment for a boy so small was overwhelming him. So he held on the boy for his dear life, shaking profusely as he did. America didn't seem to protest when he was held closer, though Finland suspected it was a lack of heart. He gave up. His heart pumped painfully at the thought. To think a child, a little boy, a baby would even own such a face. He's seen in the the elderly only, on those people who lived long meaningless lives and accomplished so little but lost so much. It was a look of utter resignation, a silent agreement to embrace the inevitable end to a pathetic life without a struggle. To see it on a young baby's face, Finland broke into helpless tears._

_"I...I'm sorry," he choked out silently. Soon his own crimes mimicked those of the child he held. Both were sobbing, leaving them red-faced, breathless, and eyes rimmed red. In the end, Finland was left silently gasping for air, steadily trying to ease the child's relentless tears. When it was all said and done, he found himself silently biting back tears as he tried to mend the wounds. The child wouldn't let him get near his face so he was left mending the broken arm. All the while he muttered soothing words hoping to dear god it would have any effect on the child._

_Somehow America kept silent as the next hours passed, though it was clear that it was a lack of energy rather than is actions caused it. When his face was wiped clean and wounds rubbed of medicinal herbs, Finland managed to wrap his wounds in bandages leaving one lone, hollow eye lamenting at his wake. Still America said nothing, resigning to be this man's vapid puppet. Certainly nothing mattered now right?_

_With a sigh Finland carried him away, barking at men to find a spare cot where he may sleep while he hunted for any food to offer the child. Feeding the boy was another matter entirely. He had to cox the boy to open his mouth, demonstrating to him that the food was not poison. Even through it all Finland only managed to get him to take five miniscules bites. Really, he could have stuffed more into his mouth in the one gulp._

_This resigned attitude continued for more days and by then Finland was fretting. The child lost significant weight to fast. The best he could do when he coxed him to eat was fifteen little baby bites. That nearly wasn't enough to satisfy anyone. The boy never left his sight, rather he never left his arms. He was always rested into his arms, sometimes on his waist when he was tired. Finland took no chances with the boy. Especially after the self-inflicted wounds he's done on his face, the kid was always watched. Silently he was thankful his men said nothing of the arrangement. Rather they were complacent, ready to help him at a moments notice. Perhaps they caught sight of the incident as well if they deliberately peeked through the doors. He had no way of knowing, nor will he probe any confessions. He simply didn't care._

_It was two weeks following that fiasco did Finland notice change. It was slight change but enough to grow giddy with excitement. America began to eat more, after one of his men suggested last week to cook what he was perhaps was use to eating. Even more so, the resigned gloominess that surrounded the child was lessening to an extent. Perhaps he found a sign to be optimistic. Perhaps he began to trust them, though Finland doubted that very much after the heated glare he received from the boy. Perhaps, and he sincerely wished it was so, he found this will to be living again. He wasn't going to deny that he was carrying a broken, lifeless corpse this past few weeks but somehow that changed. There were times when his eyes would suddenly tumble with amused curiosity when he gazed at a certain item he was certain he's never seen before. It was brief and it was rare, but it certainly was there. At that very brief instant, he almost saw a glimpse of what the child was like before his life came crashing down. That very thought, at that very scene, Finland couldn't help but smile._

* * *

><p>"Then the year passed and he made significant improvement," England recalled Finland saying, "Then he met you." England nodded solemnly to himself. Significant improvement wasn't even the word he described the transformation America has gone through. The person Finland described was the polar opposite of America. Hell, they shouldn't even be the same person.<p>

"Hey, we're swinging by McDonald for lunch!" America piped up. England frowned sicked but said nothing, ignoring the venomous protest France cried out. Something about poisoning his delicate palette with this...shit? He chose to block the others words as he watched America's movements. When he met the American, he certainly was different. He was jovial, quaint, easily excited, always happy, and so utterly adorable. Well, he was America as he knows today. With the exception of adorable, which he was not. Perhaps the only remotely close resemblance to the child Finland spoke of was his reaction towards him when he took him away from Finland. The child bawled and bawled, calling him a bully, a monster, and a couple of slang Finish words he hasn't uttered in centuries. He was only swayed to follow when England and Finland promised that they would stay in touch.

Regardless of their each country's relations, Finland willingly gave up America to England. Rather, in tears he begged the nation to take care of him. It doesn't take a genius to see the maternal bond Finland held for the boy. However, he willingly gave America up for that reason. He remembered Finland's explanation that day, "America's growing England. So much that I can't support him better than I know you can. So please England, take care of him him, please!" He wasn't a position to disagree and politely take down the offer. By that time his country was beginning to build colonies in the New World. He was in a power race between France and Spain for ultimate power. True, he delivered a successful blow destroying the Spanish Armada but Spain wasn't out of the continent just yet. That and the damn frog was weaseling his way from the North. To turn down such an offer would have been perfectly foolish. So he joyously accepted.

He almost laughed at how naive he was at that time. He thought that he could do away with the child, leave him with a local nanny until he grew older to be disciplined as a respectable English colony. Instead, he feel in love with the child, the very same way Finland had. He thought it was foolish, utter hogwash, to cling into such a relationship that ended with tears. He thought that he would never stoop so low as to to be and plead. That is until he found himself in those shoes. The ironic backlash, he must admit, was one of the few painful things he's endured in his long life.

* * *

><p><strong>EDIT: I added a good chunk that I planned to include in the next chapter. However, you know what I found that there was no way I was going to start a fresh new chapter without feeling some sort of ending for this chapter. I thought perhaps the ending I stopped with was good enough, but it was lacking. At least to me. So ah...here is the next parts.<strong>

Note: Right, why Finland? Honestly, he wasn't my first choice to discover America. I was actually going to start with Norway, but hey I have to somehow stay close to Hetalia. I understand why he was there in the first place. Anyway, given the location it would make sense that he would discover America. Norway (Vikings) landed and settled in Nova Scotia, so perhaps he met Canada. However, yes there is evidence that the Vikings traveled south to America. But, no settlement was made so decided against it. Anyway who knows? I also had the choice of the Netherlands but, knowing his character there was no way he was going to act like that. Therefore, Finland was an obvious choice.

Actually there's a part here where it honestly was dragged through, and certainly it didn't need to be there. But I felt that it should be there. It was more...comedy perhaps than I wanted either but it's all okay. Right, I'm going now. Oh yes, The French I didn't bother to translate. It seemed straight to the point. Oh yes, I would have used words that Finland would use but there was no way I would rely on internet translators. They're not exactly precise and at least I have a small background with French.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note**: Hello, Troublesome_monkey_dono signing in! Well, I'm honestly baffled with my effort to actually push on and type another chapter. I honestly expected to leave this fanfic alone in favor for my neglected ones, but the inspiration kept rearing it's head. It was annoying really. America just wouldn't stop pestering my highly lazy brain. Man, even if he doesn't exist (strictly speaking) he manages to bother someone.

Anyway, well here is the rest of what my brain has plastered me into doing. I admit, I should be starting my summer homework but, I'm not. Oh god, I'll be toast if I don't. On the other hand, We're expecting a happy bundle of joy as an addition to the family. Not only is there a 17 year age gap (something that irks me because I'm off to college well before he turns one) but it is proclaimed that he will be a baby boy named Alfred. Really, America is out to get me somehow. Enough of my rambling, off you go.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 3: Start<span>**

* * *

><p>"Lad don't slouch so much," England pointed out as Alfred leaned it to devour his meal. The American pouted, stopping for just a moment to look up at the English man across from him. A pout appeared on his face almost immediately, before he opted on completely ignoring England's demand. England sighed, "Let the food come to you Alfred. You do not follow the food." Carefully he demonstrated, in precise refinery to prove his point. The spoon full of soup was directed to his mouth, careful of drops, slurps and all. "Like this."<p>

America made a face looking down at his own food. He silently grumbled, " I don't want to do it like you." He silently jabbed at his steak with a fork with added affect, before settling at France who sat adjacent to England. France had a weary smile on his face, choosing not to interfere with England's "parenting." Instead he leaned forward just enough to reach over and pour himself a bottle of champagne. America sighed. Why couldn't they just eat lunch at McDonalds? He could even settle for Ruby Tuesdays or Applebees or something. Instead he was shanghaied into entering this ritzy restaurant with everyone else who, with all intention, wanted to avoid generic high calorie food.

He watched as Canada gently fed Kumahiro or Kumajiro or whatever-his/her-name some sort of fish before he munched on the vegetables on the side. His nose crinkled in distaste. He was all for healthy living but he hated, absolutely HATED, eating healthy. He would rather spend most of his day working out to burn the thousands of calories he's consumed, which he did, instead of eating healthy food. He was healthy enough he reasoned, being a nation and all. Hell, most of the time he managed to surprise his doctors with his health. He usually went from one happy meal away from a stroke to absolutely envious health the next.

"Alfred!" He jumped when he felt England reach over and push him back gently, "Your tie was dipping into the soup!" he chastised. America only shrugged and untied it from his neck to place into the table. He hated the tie anyway. Really, he hated ties in general. He was convinced that it was a female designed accessory that could be used against the offending male victim. The same went with heels he supposed. They were a male designed contraption to make females run slower. He almost grinned at that logic. It made perfect sense.

England only clicked his tongue in displeasure as he withdrew his handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab the remains of the soup from America's white dress shirt. "Honestly lad, at least try not to stain your shirt." America pouted once more feeling England's overbearing presence. He gingerly pushed himself out of reach making England grunt in complaint. "Now Alfred, at least let me clean that!"

He raised his head slightly, straightening himself to full stance and said, "I don't need your help England." He shot him a careful smile, his hand taking hold of the tissue from the table to dab at the stain, "I can do it myself." It took a deliberate second for him to add, "Thanks though."

England pulled back slightly stung by the action. He cleared his throat and focused at his own forgotten food and muttered, "It's nothing." He felt his face flush from embarrassment, much to his own distaste. It was a painful reminder really. He stared at his food bitterly, flinching almost at how sour it tasted in his mouth after enjoying it minutes ago.

His self lamenting was interrupted by an obnoxious ring tone which seemed to reverberate around him. "What the hell is that?" he grumbled looking around. America only let out a grin as he fished out his cellphone from his pocket. England couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. What did he say about using cellphones when eating? He looked over to Francis and Matthew, who too looked at Alfred's direction.

"Oh Eisen," Alfred greeted nonchalantly, "What? No. I'll be there Sunday. What? No, no. You don't have to."

"Alfred," England whispered harshly for him to hear. Alfred glanced at him, one hand pressing his cellphone in his hear, the other cupping his other ear in effort to stifle the noise around him. England only pointed to the plate in front him, indicating to finish his food before he begins to talk. Knowing Alfred, rather any busy nation, calls like these often last a long time.

Alfred nodded absentmindedly before turning his attention back to his conversation. "What? No, I want to be there when you scan the kid. ...Yes. If my hunch is correct then we should be able to find the ventricles in his brain to be bigger. If that's true, then his pre-frontal cortex must be damaged. At the very least it's smaller." The other nations raised their eyebrows in question. What kid? Who has schizophrenia?

"Alright Eisen. Later then," Alfred said after a few minutes of listening, "Yes. No, I'll be there by five in the morning. What? Haha, yah I'll bring the coffee. ….Yep. Bye." With that he closed his phone and began to poke at his food. He muttered to himself here and there before England interrupted him.

"Alfred? Who was that?"

"Hm, what?" Alfred said, "Oh that was Eisen. He's a dude I work in tandem with in the National Institute of Mental Health back in DC. We're doing a case study with a kid, Steven. Like I said he's been diagnosed with schizophrenia, so we're hoping he can help us shed light on what is going on inside his brain."

"How old is he?"

"He's turning sixteen in a week. I was hoping to get there by Sunday to throw him a party seeing as we've known him for three months now. Nice kid."

"Oh," was the only reply England could give. This bought on a side of America that people rarely see. Hell, some thought it never existed. With the constant ramblings of comic books, mindless video games, and onslaught of idiotic tendencies it was hard to imagine that America ever held any sign of intellect. But lo and behold, here it was. It was refreshing to see this side of Alfred, for it actually gave him hope that the boy he's spent centuries caring was doing some good in his life. He watched as America placed his chin in the palm of his hand as he rambled on about Steven.

"He's a special kid I'm telling you," America said smiling slightly, "He and the other patients involved in the study gave us so much to work with. Maybe in a couple of years there might be a way to alleviate schizophrenia, at least to those that have severe cases. I mean, medication and therapy can go so far. In Steven's case, the drugs aren't restricting his dopamine levels as much I would want it too. But if we could somehow find another way..." America grinned in an almost dazed fantasy, "Maybe by then Steven could function better."

"I'm sure he will," England said encouraged by America's optimism. The others followed suit giving America praise on his work. America brushed them off with a smile and said, "But, we're still at the cusp of it all. We just don't understand why the ventricles would enlarge in the brain. If the pre-frontal cortex is damanged, then it has to start from childhood. Did Steven have good motor skills? Wait wait, did we test him or ... Sam? Wesley?" With that he went of in a junction, thoroughly ignoring his fellow nations as he muttered to himself about the development. "Wait wait wait, yes it was Steven. He displayed abnormal signs of development I think... especially when crawling..."

England didn't know whether to intervene at this point or not. It's obvious America was frustrated with the slow progress, but what can they do about it? At the same time, he was more than pleased to find Alfred spewing intellectual gibberish. He listened as America muttered more of his case study before reaching over and patting the nation's hand and said, "Well now Alfred, I'm sure you will understand it all soon."

Alfred jumped and turned his attention to England. "Oh, Iggy, right. Did you want something?" He turned his attention to France and Canada as well. France gave him a grin and said, "If you want we can do a case study as well and compare the results."

Alfred examined him for just a moment before his face beamed with excitement, "Yeah sure!" he agreed wholeheartedly, "I want to hear your thoughts about the neuron's over stimulation of dopamine! We've done case studies where we think that we could use the own body's immune system to control dopamine amounts but we don't have the right drugs to use. Rather, we don't think it's safe. It would take billions to research on it..."

"I will do what I can to help," France assured with a balanced smile. Honestly, right now he wasn't even sure what America was talking about. He was well aware about basic schizophrenia symptoms, but he was never directly involved with any health studies except for pandemic diseases. He was too far involved with the economic problems of his country to involve himself with any health related fields. Except for anatomy. He knew about anatomy.

"Great! I'll send you the details as soon as I-" Alfred was cut off the ringing of his cellphone once more. England scrunched his nose in distaste at the obnoxious ring tone. I mean what the hell is it? Before America could answer his call England pressed out his annoyed curiosity, "By chance, what kind of ring tone is that?"

America stopped short and gave him a look of utter shock before stating, "It's the Nyan Cat song." He said is as if he said, 'This is a cellphone, Canada is transparent, or France is a pervert.' It was coupled with a look of utter shock, as if he couldn't believe that England didn't know what the hell a Nyan Cat is.

"A what?" England pressed on baffled. Honestly, what the hell is a Nyan Cat? Is that like Hello Kitty's cousin or something? Is it another concoction that was invented by Japan? Despite Japan's innocent face he was as innocent as Francis and as bizarre as Alfred. Probably even worse in certain aspects.

America glanced at his phone and opened saying, "Hey. Yah, I'm in a meeting. I'll call you back. Okay Later!" With that he shut it off and stared at him as if he's grown two heads. "It's...Nyan Cat..." he said back pathetically. England withdrew slightly insulted. Was he insinuating that he was daft? That he could possibly know the hell a Nyan Cat is? That somehow just by saying that word he would suddenly gain some sort of holy epiphany from god himself?

"I have no idea what you're blabbering on about," was his deadpan answer.

"You know," America said gesturing slightly to prove his unexplained point, "The cat! From Youtube! It goes Nya Nya Nya!" England in turn stared at him as if he's grown two head. Along with a beard full of tentacles and oozing with slime. What the hell? Did that hit in the head somehow corrode his brain? Did he hit something he shouldn't have?

Unperturbed by England's look, America ended with bursting out, "It's a poptart? Yah know...?" England continued to look at him strangely and he ventured to look at Francis and Canada. Surprisingly the two were smiling as well, though he wasn't sure it was due to Alfred or his account. Finally America sighed and finished with a resounding, "It shits out rainbows?" With a dead response from England he muttered in frustration, "Jesus, nothing? What the hell England?"

England, thoroughly insulted by America's criticizing look, snapped back, "What the hell do you mean what the hell? You sound like a bumbling idiot! With all these illusions of a cat poptart thing and rainbows! How can I not think you're crazy?"

America raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow and pointed out, "I'm not the one who talks to imaginary fairies and unicorns in my spare time Iggy." His final insult left England reeling. Well then! He was about to open his mouth when America added, "you're pretty old too, now that I think about it."

"E-excuse me!"

"Maybe you're a schizoid as well. You should be the subject of a test study England. You're not going to die easily from testing right?"

"I-I most certainly am not! I'll have you know that Flying Mint Bunny is all too real! You use to play with him as a child!" England defended, "And I most certainly am not old!"

"But, isn't he old Mattie?" America said turning to the forgotten Canadian. Canada only shuffled back further in his seat. It was times like these when he actually enjoyed being forgotten, but America had the tendency to remember him during the worst of times.

"Well..uhmm..."

"See Mattie agrees with me!"

Finally fed up, England kicked America square on the shins under the table only to feel the burn of his own pained foot. "What the hell?" he cried out automatically reaching for his foot, "Are you wearing steel bracers or something?"

"Steel what?"

France only smiled as he watched the spectacle with amusement. He offered an explanation to the two younger countries. "They are steel plates you attach to your legs and wrists in battle. We used them during our crusade days, oui Angleterre?" He glanced sideways at the fuming Brit who only cursed him and his whole country to entire damnation if he didn't shut up.

America only laughed let out a whistle, "See? Old!" England fumed silently, hoping to dear god that his face wasn't a red tomato after all this was said and done. He watched the American laugh joyfully, commenting of his own behalf to his far more innocent older brother. Canada only smiled warily, unsure of how to react to this.

"Damn git," he muttered out. It was entirely like America to ruin such an intellectual discussion with his half-witted obscenities. This was the reason why he, along with the rest of the world, were soundly sure that America would bring them crashing down to certain death if they allowed him to work alone as a Super Power. He always displayed a half-witted, obnoxious, and overly zealot persona that could only be tolerated within the first hour of meeting him, before it would melt into almost certain frustration and irritation. This was why it was impossible to find America hold an intellectual conversation of any kind, simply because it seemed he was too dim-witted to tie his own shoes.

"If you actually took it seriously sometimes," he reasoned to himself as he watched the exuberant American, "Then maybe the world would take you seriously." Of course, it wasn't entirely his fault. America was late in introducing himself to the world. Rather his first few centuries were centered on his own devotion to his people, turning the outside world away. Alfred was actually very aloof in those times, choosing to keep few contacts despite his own social nature. It was a trait, it seemed, that was reflected even today. Of course, that contempt was shown through different aspects of his personality.

"He should have changed," he reasoned. Then again, now that he reflected back on it, that was his entire fault in the first place.

* * *

><p><em>"Alfred, lad, come down from there," England weakly said reaching his arms above his head, welcoming the fuming little nation into his arms. America only fumed, his cheeks turning red in frustration, and shook his warily little head. England sighed running his hand over his unruly short locks before trying once more, "Really lad, you have to get down from that tree. You might fall!"<em>

_America's eyes only sharpened furiously and he purposely held on tighter. "No!" he squealed lifting himself from the branch and scampering further up the maple tree. England let out frightened gasp when he watched the tiny nation almost loose balance, only to correct himself by grabbing into a nimble branch._

_"Alfred please!" England begged, "you'll get hurt! Come now! Come here to me!" He held his arms higher, as if to somehow reach up and grab the child from those offending branches. He implored his wishes once more only to be resoundingly beaten down._

_"No!" America cried as held tight on the bark of the tree, "You promised! You said we'd visit Finland!" He bit back his tears and attempted to glare at his new guardian, "You lied to me!" he cried out. Frustrated he attempted to pull down some of the branches in hopes that they would somehow fall and hit his new guardian in the eye. Alas, there was no such luck._

_England only watched him, unsure how to handle the situation. Normally, he would climb the tree and drag the boy down there with force. Then he would award the child with ten spanks to teach him a lesson. Yet, as he watched America's sky blue eyes water, he couldn't possibly do it. The child was to precious, too fragile, so delicately beautiful that the sight of a tainted crying face would ruin the treasure that he found himself winning._

_So he did what he could. He gave him a guilty smile and said gently, "I apologize for my lie lad," he said softly, "but I won't allow a visit to Finland." Almost in an instant, America's face crumbled. His held back sobs were no longer unrestrained as he wept at the news. England swore his heart almost cringed in pain just watching the boy cry. He couldn't explain it, but the boy always held a certain enigma that affected others. The crushing guilt that swallowed him whole reared it's ugly head to kick him in the gut when America's sobs lessened to frightful whimpers as he croaked out, "Why not?"_

_England only weakly motioned him into his arms, hoping, begging, that he would finally agree. Alfred only stared back for a moment before he relented, sliding down the tree to be scooped up by the relieved Englishman. He found that America tensed to his touch, unsure whether to pull away in anger or to lean forward in anguish. So he stayed put, agreeing to the defeat. England gently leaned over to kiss his cheek, to console the poor boy somehow. America pulled away, making a sullen face before wiping away his growing tears. He repeated once more, "Why not?"_

_"Because," was the only answer England could give him. He wasn't quite sure why he would never allow it, but he was almost certain that he would never allow the two to unite. Not over his king's dead body. Certainly not over his own dead body._

_As expected the little America pushed away from him with slight force, but England ignored the growing pain of his chest and stared at the furious little face sadly. "Why? Why can't I see Finland! Why won't you let me see him!" The tiny punches followed after, and England had to admit he punched like most grown nations. Still, he withheld it and kept the boy in his arms. He wasn't willing to let go, not that easily._

_"Just because," was his simple answer. America stopped mid-hit and stared at him. He wasn't sure how to react to this. The pouting, the fighting, the whining, the running, it never seemed to help him with England. England just wouldn't let him see Finland. So he cried, simply because that was the only real thing left to do. He cried for his misfortune. He cried for the unfair treatment. He cried for his new found love of his old guardian. He cried for the unwanted rejection he always received. England sighed as he watched him and cradled him closer in his arms._

_He wasn't sure how long he stood there, underneath that maple tree soothing the boy. A good three hours at least, with the sun almost dying down. Still,he kept his place and patted the sleeping boy's back. He was aware that his answer was mediocre at best. It wasn't even a justified answer to begin with. Yet, he also understood that the child was too young to understand his reasons. He was too young to understand the politics. He was too young to face the harsh reality. He was too young to be left alone._

_As he head to the cabin, he pushed away the snide remarks this conscience seemed to slither in his ears. 'You're lying to yourself,' it said, 'you're being selfish.' He scoffed as he set himself down to rocking chair, carefully bundling Alfred and himself with a warm blanket. Of course he was being selfish. He, along with every damn human that plagued this earth, had a reason to be selfish._

_As he watched the sleeping boy in his arms, he understood why he was felt selfish. Alfred, this beautiful, shining baby boy in his arms, was the reason he was induced into acting as he had. He simply couldn't loose the child. The child was too valuable, a diamond among gems. He was to rich, too bountiful, too pure to ignore. To allow even one nation to claim him would be fool's errand to be sure._

_He found himself stroking the child's golden locks, finding himself awe inspired with it's hue. It was a rich color for sure, reflecting how much the sun seemed to smile down at this new nation. He thought of the sky blue eyes that seemed to penetrate his very soul. They were the color of a warm spring sky, bursting with fresh air. It was boundless, stretching forth from every horizon. His finger traced the delicate shape of his nose and lips. They were far more regal, more proportioned and symmetrical on his face. He just knew, with out any doubt, how charming this lad was going to be._

_"You're jealous," he heard a small whisper in his ear. He almost laughed at the comment. Of course. Of course he's jealous. What nation is not jealous of this child? What nation wouldn't give to become like him? What nation wouldn't enjoy the boundless persona he had? This child, the child he held so firmly in his hand, was a personification of a utopia. A place that only nation's dreamed to become. Alfred was just that dream. He was a living, breathing, picturesque painting of beauty, of bountiful riches, of sky blue heavens, of fresh living. He was the very definition of freedom._

_"He is something," he thought to himself silently as he stroked the lad's soft hair, "that every nation try in vain to become. Or, to take for themselves." His hand stilled as he watched the blazing embers of the fireplace. Naturally, every nation wants what this child could offer. A place to be free. A place to make their own decisions. A place to call their own. A place where there was a chance to start anew. A paradise. "And I have him all to myself now," he whispered softly as he rocked the chair to and fro._

_"They'll fight you for him," the dark whisper sighed,"they would want him too."_

_"Indeed," England agreed, "That they would."_

_"They would taint him."_

_England stiffened at the comment, abruptly stopping his motions. Yes, yes of course they would. How can any nation, so tainted as he, stand to watch one so pure? Of course they would taint him. They would destroy him. They would crush him. They would make sure he would fall. They would snarl at his victories, cheer at his failures. They would enjoy his torment. Of course. Oh god, of course they would. Oh bless him, they would. His hand found itself stationed on America's back, pressing him gently closer to his embrace. "I won't let that happen," he said, "I can't let that happen."_

_As if his conscience refused to yield it whispered faintly, "Won't you taint him as well?" A shiver, a terrifying shiver, reverberated down his back. Suddenly, the room felt nauseating. Suffocating. The room felt thick, his vision impaired. It swam in the corners of his vision, and he couldn't seem to grasp a clear picture through the watery haze. In all the stillness, he heard his own sharp breathing. He's suddenly aware. Aware of blood stained hands holding a pure, beautiful child. He is aware is own maniacal, war torn face staring back at a delicate child's own sleeping face. He's suddenly aware of everything._

_"Oh god," he croaked out, "I-I...I...can't."_

* * *

><p>He left after that, he remembered. When the King sent for him to return to England and address the Parliament, he raced to the docks to fix a passage to England. He had jumped at the chance to leave so desperately, it seemed even the king was befuddled with his actions. Two weeks later, he left America in the arms of an old maid whose nephew Alfred adored, and waved goodbye from the decks of the creaking ship. He remembered America's face, a face full of melancholy and surprise, as if his wish was somehow delivered a little too late.<p>

With a sigh, he remembered returning with a great deal of guilt and paranoia. He was sure, so sure, that with his absence America would be left to fend for himself. He would fight off nations ready to gnaw at his pudgy arms and legs, forever chaining his fate with theirs. There was that constant fear, that when he would return he would find America hanged somehow. It was irrational, knowing the lad's true strength, but he couldn't but raise his concern. So he had twittered back and forth, irritated and sullen, inside and out of Parliament like dying plague.

What if he's caught in a pandemic? What if they don't have enough to eat? What if he finds himself fighting a furious Indian tribe? What if he finds his way back to Finland? What if this, what if that, what if, what the bloody fucking if! He remembered finally loosing it, letting out a piercing wail as he sent the bottle of whiskey flying, staining the granite floors with colorful specks of glass and liquid. He remembered Francis hauling him away from the massacred concrete wall shouting, "Angleterre! Stop! S'il vous plait! Arrêtez!"

He cleared his throat as he downed the last of his tea. Well, it was an act he was rather ashamed to remember. To think that the damn frog witnessed such a thing, a time of weakness. It was embarrassing. He scoffed silently to himself. It was damn pathetic. He almost jumped when warm hands found their way on top of his, seemingly trying to get his attention. He found himself face to face with Matthew, whose clear lavender eyes blinked worriedly at him. "Are you alright England?" he whispered, "you look upset."

He responded with a small smile, patting Canada's hands lightly as he reassured his son, "I'm fine, I'm fine." He watched as Canada withdrew away satisfied before turning his attention to front of the room, where America had immediately dived into delivering a presentation about pandemic diseases cultivated in the CDC once they returned to the World Summit Meeting. He frowned when he saw America glance snidely at the clock before cutting short his speech. He fidgeted slightly and cleared his throat as he plunged into the next topic. What the bloody hell is he so impatient for?

After an abrupt conclusion, he watched America worm his way to the ASEANs, who looked at him incredulously. He gave Indonesia a pleased grin as he leaned in to mutter something in his ear, something that apparently made the Asian nation blush and deliver a gratified smile. Following after was a friendly pat in the back before he grabbed Singapore from his seat to mutter something else. The small nation looked undaunted as America began to laugh in his ear, but only awarded him a small nod. Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow in wonder. What the hell was he gossiping about now?

He found himself trailing after him, partly due to the fact that he was his ride, and with every intention to eavesdrop from this apparent amusing chatter. Before he could, America made his away around to wrap his offending arm around another petite nation, The Republic of the Philippines. "Maria," he heard him sing into her ear, "hello...missed you..." She, along with Arthur, cringed at his bemusing way of seduction.

"Alfred," she pulled away making a face, "please. That's weird." Standing next to him, he could see how positively short the nation was. Alfred, an outstanding five and ten inches, was a giant compared to her tiny barely five foot tall build. Even more so, America was sturdy, big boned, and toned. She looked almost delicate next to him, as if she would snap with a blow of the wind. It was almost paradoxical seeing them stand next to each other. From the build, the hue of their skin, eyes, hair, their facial features, and their personality. The only thing that seem to be the same was the ever optimistic gleam their eyes hinted here and there.

He found himself standing by them, tsking as he pulled the molesting American away. "Alfred," he warned, "what have I said about personal space?" America only pouted before he chose to ignore his former guardian and scooped the tiny woman in his arms. She struggled only for a moment before finally giving up and surrendering herself into her embrace. However the ever growing blush bloomed into a tomato like face, one she desperately tried to hide by shielding her face away with her hands. She moaned pathetically in complete embarrassment when Alfred chuckled and kissed her temple chanting, "You're so cute. You're so cute."

He had to smile. It was comforting to see such blatant displays of affection. For one, it was almost uncommon to find a couple, two nations really, that were willing to enter a relationship that did not involve any liberation, rebellion, unification or complete change in their country. Yet, here they are cuddling in the middle of the world literally basking in their own pure-made happiness. If he recalled correctly they've been together for almost sixty years now? One human lifetime. He was surprised to find that it was Alfred, of all nations, that could maintain a relationship for that long.

"Awe Angleterre," he heard someone pout in his ear, "how they have grown non?" He didn't have to turn to find Frace just smirking behind him as he watched the display. He frowned at the touching of his own shoulder, as France brazenly placed his elbow there, but did not pull away. Instead he kept on watching and sighed.

"Look look," France whistled for his attention, "even Matthew has found someone. Even if it had to be him." The latter was spit out bitterly, as he was not truly happy with Canada's own relationship. Of course, seeing as it was Gilbert who chatting with the silent nation in the corner, there were very few who actually believed that the two would last. Thus, he stood his ground and allowed himself to watch the development. It was crucial in Canada's young life that he learn the qualms of love. In his eyes, it was a lesson too long over due. Even if it is with that god forsaken son of a bitch.

England let out another weary sigh. Just watching the two interact with the world, battling their own tumbles as they followed the trial of love, was absolutely exhausting. It was as if he was thrown into the rumble haphazardly, unable to comprehend exactly what had happened. Suddenly, he felt the aching of his muscles and bones, the tired gaze, and jaded smile. It seemed unfitting for his immortal face. "Oh god," he groaned stretching his joints slightly as he shrugged France away, "I feel so bloody old."

"Ah Angleterre," France said with a chuckle, "we are both past our prime. We are old guardians now non? We now are placed in the sidelines watching our children run off and live their lives." He crinkled his nose at France's words.

With a sharp turn he glared at the nation and poked his chest hard, raising his chin to show his pained pride. "I am as capable as I was before," he pointed out icily, "and I refuse to be shoved away like some forgotten antique! You may very well be, but I for one will not allow myself any such defeat, especially from the likes of you." He watched as France's face glowed with mirth which in turn irritated him more, "And what the hell do you mean our children?" he brought up annoyed as he jabbed a finger against France's chest, "They have always been MY children, need I remind you!"

Suddenly France's face fell, a sharp bitterness passing it before he turned away slightly and said, "Do you really think that you have won that battle Angleterre?" he whispered softly as he stared back at those confused emerald irises, "because they still call me Papa."

The stubborn smirk, the one that England so violently wanted to eradicate from existence, slowly appeared in Francis's face. That paternal instinct, one so buried from long ago, began to emerge again and England found himself bounding away unhappily. He knew it was useless to do so. It was a war that's been dealt with. A war forgotten, barely remembered, and hardly worth remembering. Hell, he won that war. Yet, here he stood fuming.

"Stupid Francis," he growled out as he strode to the open doors and into the corridor, "Alfred and Matthew are my sons you git." They always remained to be his sons. Always. They were certainly not his. Never.

* * *

><p><em>If England didn't think he was sane, he would have burst out laughing. The whole thing was ridiculously hilarious. He felt the same lingering feeling of pride burst from from his chest, as exhilarating and stimulating as ever. He let out a low rumble from his lips before throwing his head back and laughed. The pride, so strong and so bloody satisfying, showered his being as he thought of the development. The grin, almost primal in it's essence, finally resumed it's place on his amused face. A dark whisper, his friend for many years, finally spoke snidely in his ear. "You've won."<em>

_Of course he's won. His chest puffed up full of pride. Damn right he's won this bloody war. He's beaten that overbearing simpleton, robbing him of his joy and crushing is empire into pieces. He laughed once more. That feeling, to steal another nation's joy from his arms, was downright rewarding. He crushed his bloody empire into smithereens. He's left him bankrupt. He's left him tired, war beaten, and plunging face first into despair. He grinned. That idiot deserved it._

_"Oi, you," a annoyed grunt took him from his self reflected gloating, "take your brat." England turned to find the silver haired albino glaring back at him, clutching a terrified young child like a sack of potatoes. Impulsively, he pressed his arms forward ready to receive this poor child. He was shoved unceremoniously into his arms with a small biting remark, "He's not worth nothing I'm telling you."_

_"Anything," he remarked back coolly as he rocked the shivering child. The lad remained shivering, afraid to bury his head into his chest and sob, but frightfully aware that the scary man was quite too close for comfort. "There, there Matthew," England cooed, "this fool will not hurt you." Prussia merely snorted in response. Gently he began to rock the child, hoping to somehow qualm his fear. He smiled fondly at his golden curls, astounded with it's softness. He patted his head softly whispering, "Come now Mathew darling, stop crying now."_

_Prussia, a complete bystander in every sense, seemed almost embarrassed to be in this situation. He, a familiar ally and enemy, was accustomed to a brute England. An Englishman with no sense of guilt, sympathy, nor feeling for anyone else but his own. A man with a scalding tongue who can mold a person with his glare and reduce them to pitiful ashes. A pirate, who slaughtered thousands with a feral grin, absolutely basking in a crimson waterfall of untold riches. He was a man of pride, of apathy, of sly discipline. He was certainly not the man who stood before him, cooing at a crying brat whose life was nothing short of worthless. It was bizarre._

_He wasn't sure if he was expected to burst out laughing at the display or simply revel in the pure miracle of it all. So he stood there awkwardly, watching the scene with an almost critical eye. The brat -Matthew was it?- was silently sobbing into England's shoulder, muttering out unintelligible responses. He cringed as he thought of the soaking, mucus caked shoulder England would be sporting later on. Yet, England seemed absolutely happy of this development, as if he enjoyed this...thing touching him so._

_"Papa...," the boy wailed weakly. Prussia frowned was more. This boy was damn silent. "Je veux mon pere, Je veux Papa," he croaked out. He raised his head now and Prussia was finally granted a better view of his face. Young, as any eight year old nation can be, his face red and wet with tears. His eyes, admittedly were astonishingly beautiful, the purple irises managing to shine despite his ridiculous whining. Of course, he though snidely, they weren't as robust nor as beautiful as his own. Still, they were nice._

_England only moved to face the lad and sighed, "That man isn't your papa Matthew," he said, "not anymore." Prussia's face crumbled. There it is. There is the England he knew and so violently wanted to kick in the face. He was sure, so sure that the lad would burst into pieces at the words. Yet, amazingly he did not. He stayed silent, though awfully upset, as he ingested England's words like disgusting medicine. "Pourqoui?"_

_"Because," England said pressing his forehead close to his, "he gave you to me." Prussia rolled his eyes. More like he had to wrestle the blasted French man away as England stormed the little cabin where the brat was situated to take him. It had taken all but his good looks to steer the upset nation away. Heck, he busted a bone, strained several muscles, and bled for this stupid thing's sake! He rubbed his aching shoulders and reminded himself to bath three times the next day. Francis, for a man who stuffed himself with chocolate and wine, had impeccably perfect teeth. They were white, strong, and sharp. He rubbed his shoulder wearily. They were a lethal weapon._

_"Je...Je veux...," the child whimpered. England shushed him with small kiss on the cheek and said, "English darling, English." Prussia had to snort again. Aren't you mighty quick liberating that tiny nation Arthur? What next, brain wash them like all the rest?_

_"Mais...," the lad didn't finish. Instead he leaned forward slightly to clutch the fabric of England's clothes cautiously before looking up at his new parent, "Je...I...do not...sp...parle Anglais." Prussia chuckled. He had just butchered the English language. Even more so, he wasn't even capable of speaking more than one language. What kind of nation was he? Not a worthwhile one, that's for sure._

_"That's alright," England said reassuringly before sending Prussia a head glare, "I'll teach you."Prussia wanted to laugh once more. Well good luck with that you ass._

_"M-mais...Papa..."_

_England only smiled reassuringly to pacify the extremely confused tiny nation before saying, "It's alright Matthew darling. That French frog won't hurt a tiny hair on your little head," after a moment he added, "You know Matthew. You remind me of my son." Prussia rolled his eyes. Yes, that other brat. England ignored Prussia's musings for a moment as he focused on the tiny child. Yes, he reminded eerily of Alfred. He smiled down at him fondly, taking in his facial features. Right there, the curve of his nose and the shape of his lips. Yes, right there, they shared an outstanding resemblance. Then there were his ears, the exact same shape. He took in his chubby cheeks and he couldn't resist cuddling him closer. Yes, they were like Alfred's. He was sure that if Matthew were to smile, his beam would be Alfred's. Maybe even the small dimple would appear just as so._

_Yet his eyes, England reflected, were far different from Alfred's. While Alfred's reflected the summer sky, Matthew's were a striking purple. Alfred's were the color of the sky on a fine morning. It would then reflect the heat of the day before it would cool. Ah, that's where Matthew's eyes are from, he supposed. "You're eyes," he whispered, "is the sunset." The child looked up at him curiously, unsure what to make of his declaration. He was unsure of anything at the moment._

_He was satisfied none the less. It was clear, how truly his eyes were like the setting horizon. He could just picture it. The colors of the setting sky, clashing a myriad of color. He remembered sunsets like those, when he gazed upon the horizon of the sea waiting for the moon to arise. There, just before the sun hide away, the small vision of light clashed with the sky a cascade of purple. For that split moment, just of that one instance, it would transpire into array of colors just like his. Yes, just like his. He was sure._

_"You're being pathetic," was the candid comment Prussia could offer as he turned away. The scene was too damn sentimental for his taste. It could make Austria swoon with it's sweetness, but he sincerely hoped that he left that bastard to bleed to death in the battlefield. That is unless Hungary oh-so-saintly healed his wounds once more. That witch._

_"I could say the same to you Gilbert," England returned just as smoothly. He turned to the frozen nation with a well placed smirk pressing Canada closer to him as he moved. "You were positively smitten with...Ludwig was it?" Gilbert's plastered smile broke and he turned towards England annoyed. He was about to contradict his words when England added, "If I remember correctly, you still do not allow him to ride a horse without you."_

_"Shut up."_

_England only chuckled, "You are just as pathetic Gilbert." Prussia's cheeks reddened slowly at the insult. He wondered mildly why he chose to fight beside this ass in the first place. For that split second he felt torn, as he remembered Austria's annoying face. That annoying voice. That damn annoying tone. Ah, that's right. He fought with an ass to fight with the other ass. Upon hindsight, he should have beaten both down when he had the chance._

_"And," England added testily, "you certainly do not mind it either. Isn't that right?"_

* * *

><p>"Mattie!" America called offhandedly as he steered the petite nation away from the crowd of nations, "I got her! Let's jet to my place and hook up the system! Japan gave me an awesome new game he thought I might like! It looks awesome!" Absentmindedly ignoring the protesting girl, he grabbed hold of Canada who said nothing and lured them both to the doors.<p>

With a sudden fit of strength, perhaps desperation to catch a breath, Philippines pulled away and pushed him off with a great huff. "Alfred! I-I...ah...I can't come today!" she breathed in deeply trying to regain some air, "I have to fly back today and talk to the President about Ce-"

Alfred cut her off with a pout, whining like a child as he grabbed hold of her hand, "But Maria! I haven't spent any time with you at all!" Maria looked at him and then glanced at Matthew who obediently stayed quiet as he knew it was unwise to interrupt at all. Rather, it was useless to do so.

"And what about your brother?" she pressed with a raised eyebrow, "he is coming along as well you know. He can't be the third wheel." America, almost baffled with her statement, turned towards his brother with an surprised stare.

"Mattie! You're here?" he exclaimed incredulously. Canada blinked back, mouth opened slightly, unsure whether to act insulted or concerned. Philippines only rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. America continued to stare, thinking back to when he had called for the nation in the first place. Was it two minutes ago? Ten minutes ago? No, no, he was chatting with Serbia...

"Well then," Maria said looking back to the ASEANs who were taking leave, "they're my ride." She gave a small wave, taking the sight of a pouting America before she awarded him with a soft smile and gently reached up to give him a hug, "I'll call you when I get back okay?" Despite her reassurance, Alfred pouted once more looking like a kicked puppy. He moved to press a kiss on her forehead, watching as she blushed crimson and pulled away slightly. Awe, she's so cute.

She cleared her throat and gently pulled Matthew into a hug saying, "Don't let him get to you. You know how he is." Winking at the Canadian, she ran after the group and awarded them with one last goodbye. They watched her leave in silence, both unsure how to feel of the situation. Alfred, feeling both whipped into place and understandably upset, sighed. He knew how busy nations can be. He turned to Matthew who was studying him in turn. Matthew, quite reasonably, was upset with the almost instant and insulting treatment he received.

"Listen Mattie," Alfred reasoned sparing him an apologetic smile, "I'm sorry 'bout that. It's just I was so excited to hang with Maria again...and it was just by instinct to grab you so...I...you know." He heard himself trail of into uncomfortable silence, unsure how to say how we felt. In both senses, he was still a flipping asshole to do that to his brother. Even if he didn't mean to be.

"It's alright Al," the Canadian muttered silently giving him a small trace of a smile, "We...we are still going to hang out right?" He raised this polar bear, who somehow was skilled enough to find him in this crowd of nations, and waited for the American to answer. He knew for sure Alfred would agree, simply because it was always this way. After every meeting, they would make time to hang out. In the spring, it was gardening. Alfred had a consistent and stubborn streak of maintaining his massive outdoor garden every spring. He called it conservation at it's finest. During the summer they lazed about his house having the most violent sessions of WOW or Call of Duty or whichever game Alfred had somehow laid his hands on. The fall was a session of bestial competition that led through the whole winter. They kept warm with bloody plays of Ice Hockey and Winter Man Hunt. As it was winter, he was sure he'd be equipped with a sturdy stick and puck.

"Sure!" Alfred exclaimed excitedly. He grabbed the Canadian's hand, pulling out his cellphone to call for a ride when he met face to face with a fuming Brit. "Oh," he replied stopping himself before he could the topple the small nation, "Iggy. Right you're staying over too." It wasn't as if he was meant any insult towards the nation, but England was a traditional fun-sucker. His definition of fun was knitting a scarf or a sweater while sipping tea near the fireplace. It was just his personality.

The Englishman stared at the two for a second, choosing to disregard Alfred's mildly insulting comment. Instead he bought the two into his arms, a feat he congratulated himself with when he found they fit, and sighed. The two, both equally confused, only lingered for a moment before pulling away almost embarrassed at the display. Alfred chose to clear his throat and looked away for moment. The Canadian chose to stare at his former guardian with a hesitant question ready to leap forth from his lips.

Alfred stole his words with a small, "U-uhm...cool. Okay? Wassup Iggy?"

Instead the Englishman straightened himself and began fix his charges' crooked ties as a distraction before commenting, "Alfred it isn't appealing to stutter. Even more so, it is fathe" - I caught himself before he could even finish uttering the word and quickly remedied with - "Ahem...it is far more atrocious to use slang." He was thankful for his quick thinking, though he believed it left both his boys even more bewildered.

"Uh..huh."

"A-alright."

He nodded and led the two forward, taking both their arms into his and smiling at the closeness. Despite their size, he felt as if he was at least holding them both as he had before. He chose to ignore their towering shadows and listened as the two brothers interacted.

"So uhm...yeah. Mattie, let's like...make pancakes," Alfred commented awkwardly as he led out of the room. He sent a questioning gaze to his brother, indicating their predicament. The Canadian gave him a small shrug and mouthed silently to go on with it.

"Sure, Al," The Canadian said slowly as he eyed the Englishman. He seemed awfully happy now. It was as if he had somehow found some sort of happiness by clinging on to both of them as hard as he is. Was he reminded of something? Was he planning something? Did he have some sort of epiphany he refused to let on? "Just be sure we have maple syrup."

"Yep! I still have like the twenty bottles you sent me for thanksgiving! I OD on that shit every morning," Alfred said offhandedly as he thought back of his supply, "I don't have eggs...or milk...or flour though." Canada sighed. Figures. He's been living off take out again hasn't he?

"That's alright boys!" England piped up, "let's shimmy off the grocer then! Perhaps we can make scones while we're at it! How does that sound?" Slowly but surely the color left both the boys face and they were sure this was what England had been planning. They were his guinea pigs. His fools. His damn subjects to poison. Alfred made a balking sound, something England chose to ignore as he led them off. Canada held a troubled expression, unsure whether they could survive making more weapons of mass destruction.

"N-no...no. It's alright," Canada assured desperately, "I'll do it! I-I'll cook! It's alright! You just...you just watch!" he piped up. Yes, please just watch. Please, please to dear god, please do not step near the kitchen. Please, father, please.

Alfred, who didn't bother even masking his own troubles, only whined. He had no qualms of upsetting England over his food for he, along with every nation in this world, was sure it could come to life and devour you if it were left to spoil. Hell, he was sure that he would end up having to refurbish his kitchen, along with is entire house, if he allowed England to cook. "That's right, let Mattie cook! You know, I'll cook too! Yeah! I'll make us some Memphis barbeque! How's that sound?"

England was going to open his mouth in protest but Canada had beaten him to it with a relieved, "Yes! That sounds nice! I..I can make dessert too! Yes! Uhm...Dad you can...you can make tea! You make such great tea!" He saw Alfred open his own damn mouth to protest but was cut off by a heated glare from his older brother. Damn his love for coffee. He preferred to continue living. Alfred coughed and looked away, silently adding coffee to the list of ingredients they had to buy.

They both turned to watch England's reaction. He seemed mildly upset, before his face suddenly lit into a smile. "Alright then," he said goodheartedly, "I'll make the tea. How does Earl Gray sound?"

"Sounds...great," Alfred's flat voice answered. England paid no mind to that as he pulled them off. He felt the elated happiness rumble from his gut once he heard Canada utter the words he's been silently praying to hear for a good hour or so now. Dad. Yes, that's right. Dad. Their Father. He sighed in content. It felt nice to hear that once more. He felt even more happiness bubble at the feeling of need and importance and boys placed upon him. True, they didn't really need tea to survive. Yes, they could bloody make their own tea. Yet, just the feeling of doing something for them made his heart swoon with glee.

"It's just like before isn't it, Arthur?" His gaze went up to the flying green bunny that hovered just above them. He refrained from talking to her, for he didn't want to ruin the mood by being questioned of his sanity from his own children. Instead he hummed in agreement as he continued to the entrance. "It's nice to see them again. They've grown haven't they!" the small bunny commented as it flew to examine each boys' face. They weren't aware of her presence, a fact that saddened her greatly for she use to care for them as children as well, but she was just as happy just to see them. When they left, rather when they stopped seeing her, it left her so heartbroken she couldn't bear to see them. Thus she was left back in England and chose to stay there for the majority of her time."They've grown so handsome!" Another hum of agreement was heard and she settled herself on England's head with a small sigh, "I wish I could talk to them again."

That was met with silence. It stung her a little, but she knew there was nothing Arthur could do of her predicament. They simply had overgrown her. So she moved on from her sadness and said, "It's actually quite surprising how close they seem to be. They weren't like that when they met were they Arthur?"

A moment of silent followed before a small chuckle was heard. "No they weren't," he said. Suddenly the two snapped their heads towards their guardian. He shut his mouth quickly, cursing himself for his sudden lack of discipline. Damn. He's ruined the mood.

"Uhm wut?"

"..Who?"

"Nothing, nothing," England attempted to brush away.

The American raised an eyebrow as he stared critically at his guardian and said, "Talking to your little friends again Iggy? Are you sure you aren't schizophrenic?" England colored a little flustered but kept his mouth shut. He was content with the situation and wouldn't let Alfred's comment ruin it so easily. The bunny atop of his head just laughed sadly watching as her old friend was assaulted with more insults and concerned questions. "No," she muttered to herself, "they really aren't the same."

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><p><em>She felt happy. So very very happy today. It was fine morning, she decided. Perched atop England's head she watched the sleeping boy squirm in his arms. The child was pretty she decided. Delicate and pixie like. She crinkled her nose at that analogy. No, she takes it back. Those goddamn pixies were too arrogant for her taste. No, fairies were better. "He looks like fairy," she decided as he pointed at this lips, "See Arthur? Right there. Like a fairy."<em>

_The pirate chuckled as he rose the child closer for her to see, "I do suppose he resembles one doesn't he? Very fragile and cherubic isn't he?" He took in his long curly hair, and brushed them away from his face. It reminded him awfully of the French frog, but he had no heart to cut it shorter than what the lad preferred. He said he liked it this length, so may god bless him, he kept it as it was._

_"Will he be like your other son?" the bunny inquired, "Your little Alfred?"_

_"Ah," the nation said turning to the blue sea, "you haven't met him yet have you?"_

_"That's right!" the bunny sang as she flew to face him. She pressed a teasing paw on his nose and gave him a mildly upset look and pouted, "That's due to your own doing if you must know! You left me all alone in that big house to watch that King of yours! I'll have you know that he did nothing more but eat, sleep, and be an lazy bore!" She huffed in response and dramatically rose her nose up in the air in contempt._

_Normally, he would have defended his King's honor but he knew there was no need to with her. "I do apologize then," he said warmly, "but you'll meet him soon. A day's wait and he'll be running up to us. You'll see."_

_His old friend relaxed and placed herself just above the child to watch his sleeping face. Gently he cradled him to let her have a better view. "Will he look this beautiful Arthur?" she asked curiously as she pressed her paw affectionately against the child's cheek. Matthew let out a small grunt as he turned away from her. "He felt me!" she exclaimed amazed, "did you see that Arthur? He felt me!"_

_"That he did," Arthur said intrigued, "he might have to ability to see you then. You've never appeared to him as openly as you are now."_

_"Do you think Alfred will see me too?" she breathed in happily. She felt like flying in circles. She felt giddy as she thought of what fun things she could play with the two once they were acquainted. Oh what fun! What fun! She could just imagine it now. To play with two very adorable children all day. "Oooh! I can't wait!" she exclaimed clapping her little bunny paws in delight, "we'll have so much fun!"_

_"Of course, of course," the British man assured. Of course, England always had a bad habit of lying to her. Yes, her introduction with Matthew was admittedly rough. He had given a squeal of fright when he saw her, unsure if he was dreaming or not. After much explanation, one that left this little mind reeling, he stared at her for an hour or more before deciding to finally make some civil pleasantries. While he was sweet and adorable as a button, there was a feeling of awkwardness that surrounded them. She, who had expectations of happy days playing in the sun, felt prodded by his eyes for he just wouldn't stop staring. Really, it was neither her or his fault. He simply couldn't make do with the situation so early. "It takes time," England wisely said. She huffed. Time took too long!_

_Yet, she was comforted with the fact that Canada was trying. He would offer her food. Offer small talk here and there. He was generally a sweetheart, though he often couldn't think of what to say. She hoped, at least from what she heard from Arthur, that his other son would be more agreeable. He told her how special the child was after all. If anything, he would interact more with her._

_What met her was even more tense than she ever ventured to believe. The child, who she found to be as handsome as the other, was patiently waiting in the docks for them. Yet, upon observation, she saw the striking difference with the two. This one, she thought, was more robust. He seemed stronger, more stubborn, more...independent than the other. The glare that he had given to England, she thought back, was quite curious. So she stayed away, hiding underneath England's hat as they walked closer to the child. "My," she wondered to herself, "he is as England described. Very...beautiful."_

_"Hello there Alfred," England greeted with a fond hug, "It's good to see you. I'm surprised you waited for us at all."_

_Alfred gave him a small unimpressed look before saying, "Rosa said she would have wanted that." England nodded gravely before he felt his hair tugged. He frowned. Oh that's right, she's still in his hat. He wasn't sure if this action was needed, but she insisted because she wanted this to be 'surprise.' He wasn't sure the lad could take two surprised in one day. "She also said...you would take care of me now that she's gone." Alfred finished. He looked to the floor, upset and flustered._

_England could only pat his head. Alfred has grown particularly attached to the old maid he's left him with. With her death, he was sure the lad would be devastated. He had finally opened up to another being, after being ripped apart from Finland for so long, and then went and left him again. Yes, of course it hurt. It stung. His only companion was her nephew, who now was a young man and had his own family. The days of childhood play was behind him, so Alfred was no longer a direct priority. Yes, it stung a lot. Thus England was here to comfort him. That and give him more company. "Well, Alfred. I am sure should would not have wanted you moping. She would have wanted you happy and smiling. Where's that smile then?" He was met with a solemn face as Alfred pulled away from him._

_"She told me that you wanted me to meet someone," he said silently. Frowning, he stood up and cleared his throat. It seemed even now, this small hatred that Alfred felt for him had not diminished. It was something he had to remedy then. He breathed in sharply before motioning behind him. He brought forth a shy Matthew who hid behind wooden crates near the ship. He smiled at the youth as he pulled him up. He was sure that Matthew would be a perfect playmate for his little brother. The two, being nations, would age the same. At the very least, Matthew will not leave so easily. _

_"Alfred," the Englishman said, "I want you to meet your new brother." He settled Matthew in front of the displeased lad and watched as they stared at each other for a long moment. The bunny his hat stirred, edging to peek out and watch the development. Both expected some sort of pleasant greeting, even more so, some sort of familiarity seeing as they were practically neighbors. _

_However, they were met with a violent retort from the American lad who stepped away even more displeased. "He's not my brother," the boy hissed looking up at the man, "he doesn't look anything like him." The other child looked at him curiously, unsure how to react. He was told that this boy was his new brother. That he was quite pleasant. That he was nice and would smile and him and teach him better English. Yet, it seemed he was very upset with his presence. He looked up at the man confused. "...?"_

_England wasn't quite sure what to say to the American. It was apparent that he has displeased the lad once more. He was so sure that he would happy to find a new brother. Yet, he seemed so violently insulted. Who was this brother he was talking of? He stooped down and attempted to remedy the situation by saying, "I'm afraid you misunderstood Alfred. He is your new brother, Matthew."_

_America only stepped back and shouted, "That's not true! He isn't my brother!" He glared heatedly at the frightened boy in front of him. He didn't like how the boy looked. He seemed so...weak. So fragile. So damn breakable. He was just the image that he was as a child and it sickened him. Look where it's gotten him! Look at his life now! This thing...this new 'brother' of his was an insult to his very being! He's spent years, years practically hiding away from England, to develop his own. To shed this weak character and shove it back to this Englishman's face. He's finally moved on with his life. He had accepted his role as an English colony, though bitterly, as he saw that his loved one -dear old Rosa- wanted him to. So he swallowed his pride just to appear and greet them as Rosa would have liked. Yet, here he was practically rubbing salt on old wounds! How dare he?_

_"Alfred please," the English nation said, "you're being rude now. Matthew is your new brother after all. You should-"_

_"He's not!" he protested even more, "Look at him! He's not my brother! I don't know him! He doesn't look anything like my brother! He's...He's not like Black Bear!" His nostrils flared in anger, making the small boy in front of him flinch. He sneered in disgust. Look at him, just look at him! He was nothing like his brother! True, Black Bear and he were not blood brothers. They were cousins, but he was the closest thing to a brother America ever had, with the exception of Rosa's nephew of course. Still, still...just look at him! He was trembling, frightened to death at just a glare, he was stuttering and was so pale that he was sure that he would have dropped dead at a second. This child did not deserve the title of his 'brother!' NEVER! He pointed at the boy and continued, "if he was my brother, then where was he all this time! Why is he with you! Why is he-"_

_"My oh my," a small voiced quipped up and interrupted him, "he's a hot head isn't he?" Suddenly his trial of vision snapped up and his gaze landed on a flying rabbit, who looked down at him tsking. His mouth went slack as the thing floated just above him and examined his face, "he's awfully upset isn't he? What's this you're saying? You've got another brother? Have you now? I haven't heard of other brothers. Arthur have you been holding back on me?" She turned unexpectedly to the other nation, who watched the charade with a distressed face._

_Before she could voice anymore, a strong and hot hand encased itself around her and she was pulled towards the curious lad who she had spoken to just moments ago. "...Hey now!" she cried as he was shook around for just moment and she came face to face with the lad._

_"It...it talks!"_

_"Yes, I do talk," she grumbled, "now if you please, I-"_

_"Holy mother god!" the child screamed in her ear making them all flinch, "this thing is talking!" She sighed. Now, she understood how special this child really was._

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><p><strong>Note:<strong> Hi...uhm. Yes, well, hello there readers! Well I have a few words about his chapter. One, this thing is short. Shorter than my other chapters, but I really did not wish to extend the French and Indian War as much as I would have. Due to their age, I summarized that Alfred and Matthew would not participate. Sure, their people fought but undoubtedly it was a conflict for the grown ups. This chapter was really meant to introduce family dynamics. I wanted to show how Canada and America reacted to each other, past and present. Also, I wanted to show another side of England. A more..uhm...yah other side of England. Haha.

This is also the start of relationships. Family relationship of course, but also intimate relationships. Really, I would have chosen a better candidate than the Philippines but, there really wasn't one I could think of. If it were Mexico, then it would have destroyed the whole Alamo thing. That and I wanted to do something else with the two. I would have picked Vietnam, but I had other plans as well. So Philippines it is. Admittedly, it was a good choice seeing as their media actually responds positively to American influence, unlike other countries.

Oh yes, why is Alfred sounding so smart? Well, I've never truly wanted America to always act like an idiot. He has to have some sort of intelligence. I mean, come on now, we Americans do not act like impish boors all the time right? We do contribute to the scientific society too! (I feel like I'm just convincing myself this, but that is true).

Honestly, I'm not satisfied with this chapter, so I'm wiling to bet I will revise before I even post the other up. Look out for that! Oh yes. Sorry for the bad writing. I am aware that I tend to leave of words, do run on sentences, incomplete sentences, and all that. I'll fix that...someday.

Oh, and please do review. I'm kind of debating whether I should stall working on this fanfiction due to others I have yet to finish. I'd love to hear for my readers. Actually, I want to know whether I should stay in depth with the Revolution, coming up in the next few chapters. I also want to know your honest opinion about how I interpreted the history. I sometimes feel like I'm barely scratching the surface when it comes to actually giving some sort of semblance to it. Anyway, Ciao for now! Troublesome_Monkey_Dono signing out!

Oh my, I forgot to add, Happy Halloween Everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Hello, Troublesome_monkey_dono signing in! Yes, I do understand I'm quite slow updating. I do apologize, but I am in the midst of college applications. I can't dawdle all day you know! That and my physics teacher is intent on somehow making our brains implode by the end of the year. Well, wish me luck! Anyway, on you go.

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: <em><span>Stirrings<span>_**

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><p>"Are you upset?" England ignored the giggling green bunny perched on his shoulders as he turned his head towards the car window with a huff. America had somehow managed to find another car use and they had piled in intent on getting to the grocer and home to freshen up. He was truly excited with the proposition of spending time with his two boys before joining that so called 'hot pot' later that night. Yet that damn frog had to ruin the mood, choosing to tag along with them as well. Honestly, it was downright upsetting. He huffed again. Damn frog ruins everything! He sent a heated glare towards the man, who gave him a cold smirk in return. Git.<p>

"Oh silly silly boy," the bunny sang in his ear as she affectionately pawed at his cheek, "don't be upset! You look ugly when you're upset!" He turned away from her and snorted. He itched to retaliate, shouting how he had the damn right to be upset and he was certainly not a "silly, silly boy." He straightened himself up just so to prove his poise. He was in fact quite the gentleman. A grown, sophisticated nation who had out grown all of his childish tendencies. The green bunny only giggled once more and said, "You're so funny, you silly boy. So funny and cute!" That brought the scowl come crashing down even more as he digested her words.

He itched to retaliate but withheld it with another snort. With that America sighed as he curved left to overpass a car. He dared to glance over to Matthew who only gave him a weary smile. Normally, he would choose to ignore the atmosphere and go on some heroic rant about McDonalds, but even he wasn't dim enough to notice the darkening atmosphere that overtook the car. The moment they met up with the French man and drove away the two nations behind him were ready to jump each other. He wasn't sure if it was pure rage or some pent up sexual frustration. "So...," he whistled out to gain attention, "We're going to Shop Rite and..."

"Get baking ingredients," Matthew reminded silently.

"Right," America nodded as he stopped at a red light, "And I'll whip us up some barbeque and burgers!" He grinned happily. For just a brief moment, he picture the dish in his mind. He could almost smell the Memphis barbeque sizzle just right when set on the grill. He sighed in delight. That right there was home cooking at it's finest. "Oh yeah, I'll bring some at the hot pot. Where is it again?"

"It is at the hotel I am staying in," Francis clarified, "in my room."

England let out another snort, giving the nation a steely glare. He huffed, crossing his arms and said with a raise eyebrow, "We refuse to enter any room you inhabit, even for just a few hours. Especially if it is your room." He turned away with a scowl, making the French man lean back insulted at his words. He almost let out a snide smirk. That's right, be insulted you worthless imbecile.

"At least Arthur," Francis hissed, "people actually enjoy it and are willing enter!"

"Oh is that what you French call it?" Arthur shot back, "Because we tend to refer to that as assault and rape!" The Frenchman's face went slack, momentarily driven away with shock. However, it returned full force and he looked ready to return the banter with an engaged fists. The two younger nations were sure he would if he had no self respecting morals to oblige to. Yet even then, the thought was grimly satisfying and quite tempting. Still he had to decency to hold back, at least until his children were out of the car and out of sight.

England, on the other hand, was as ready as ever. He knew exactly where this was heading and he wouldn't have had it any other way. The restrained frustration he had caged finally swelled, thrashing away from it's confides with devastating force. He wanted, yearned, to beat the shallow Frenchie to the ground. He needed to feel his fist connect with his jaw and accept the overwhelming pride of the deed. He itched to feel the adrenaline course through his veins, at least for that second, when he peered down at the beaten man crouched in front of him like a begging dog. He yearned to spit in his face the same words he's uttered centuries before, "They're never yours."

France's eyes narrowed as he found England wholly mouthing the words in front of his face. At that second, it mattered not his pride, as hand leaped from his side and circled it's way to the Englishman's neck. "They were never yours in the first place!" he hissed back, shaking arms slamming the man against the glass window. England choked slightly at the intrusion before brandishing a hard punch on the gut. Francis lurched forward just so, his grasp loosening as he bit back the pain. It gave England just the opportunity to shove him away, slamming him to the other side of the car with an awkward slap.

Before the two could react, the car suddenly halted to a damning stop. Alfred quickly overtook a car and lurched the vehicle to a stop before violently turning back towards them with a heated, "What the hell are you doing!" His blue eyes wildly jumped from one to the other, unable to comprehend exactly what happened in a split second. The two only stared back ungratefully. England muttered a soft response as he massaged his bruised neck. The other, France, rubbed at his aching shoulder silently. His gaze was diverted to the floor, almost ashamed.

"Desole," he uttered despondently as he stole a glance to England. England shot another glare at him and turned away. Muttering a short curse, he too turned away. For now, the small battle was over. That is that. So he returned his gaze to the questioning nations in front of them, both who seemed to be searching for invisible answers. His gaze landed on Matthew, whose lovely purple eyes peered back in worry. He almost broke as smile at the sight. Ah, his little Matthew never seems to change.

"Alright," Alfred started with a raised eyebrow, "but that doesn't explain what the hell just happened here." He watched as the young nation's lip curled to a disappointed frown, convinced that his caretakers were loosing it. Yet, for a split second he found that frown lessen as a hint of mischievous glee shone and he started, "If this is some sort of fucked up sex fantasy you guys are having-"

"Stuff it you twat," Arthur spat turning a repulsed face towards charge, "Your sexual innuendos are not needed!" America stopped short of his sentence to stare at him, critically examining his face. From the centuries of knowing the man, he knew well enough when England was well irritated. At this moment, it was clear that he was. He was touchy today, very touchy. His emerald eyes were shining dangerously, daring him to speak more than he should. He knew that it would be rewarded with a sharp kick, colorful slander, and a quick diplomatic break. It was something that even he wasn't stupid enough to do. He had too many things to worry about. So his mouth formed a thin line, blue eyes narrowing critically as his gaze slipped to France.

Now he knew France was actually harder to assess. Despite his ridiculously flamboyant personality, Francis was one of the few nations who knew exactly how to hide his thoughts as he saw fit. Of course, those occasions are few to none as he enjoyed showing his reactions to the world. Rather, he was just impulsive like that. Still, when he deemed it right, he locked his thoughts behind an impeccably hard mask. Therefore, it was downright impossible to find any clue of his thoughts etched on his face. He was nothing like England who, despite his isolated tendencies, was an open book.

Still, even he knew how to crack a damn impenetrable wall. It may take a sledge hammer and dynamite, but he knew how to break France's facade. "Papa," he ventured to test out, "what exactly happened?" Perhaps, if he chipped at the mask just enough he might find a crack. At least that was what he had hoped. Honestly, he wasn't sure of the outcome. Hell, he took a major gamble. True, there was nothing ridiculously wrong with calling his old caretakers their parental names – though admittedly it was downright humiliating at times – but he came to a point where he had outgrown them. Rather, he was no longer a subjected child of theirs who leaned against them for support. He was a grown man, a mighty nation, who had to power to subject the world to their knees. It had been centuries when he uttered those words seriously, speaking to them as a son to a father. By doing so he may have passed through a delicate thread of their relationship, unsure if it was a mistake or not.

The appalled reaction England took on was a shock. Immediately he looked as if he was bitten by some invisible beast, displaying a look of pained hurt before turning away so suddenly. His eyes jumped to France who seemed unsure how to react. Surely his own facade broke, expressing a look of genuine shock. It bordered on impeccably happy relief, something that America found even more curious. "Amerique," he breathed out softly, "It...it was..." He trailed off, shaking his head, and sending England a searching look. At this America sent Canada a confused look, whom the other mirrored at an extent. He seemed to understand the situation more than he, so he gave the other a pleading look to stay quiet.

So he stayed quiet as the surveyed the scene. It stayed for a moment later before America decided to turn back around to the front without a word. He briefly glanced at Canada, who took a momentary glimpse at the two nations behind them before he too turned away. The silent testament was upheld between the two, for both did not dare stir the two older nations behind in fear of retaliation. They only held silent conversations through small glimpses of each other, with Canada berating this little brother to let him handle the situation. He frowned. Was he not capable of that task as well?

Well, technically yes, it was his fault this stalemate seem to have deepened but still. He dared to glance back using the rear view mirror and cringed at the sight. The two were turned away from each other, defiantly facing each opposite window. If were anymore room away from each other they would have gladly taken it for their bodies were almost pressed against each car door, as if they wish to impale themselves just to be further away. Neither spared a glance at the other, each lost in thought. What scared America the most, even more than he'd likely admit, was the trail of tears that slid down their trembling cheeks. "What the hell?" he muttered to himself silently as he snapped his eyes back to the road, "What the fuck happened?"

Canada too sent a worried glance at the mirror, as he bought Kumajiro to a comfortable position in his lap. The polar bear rested it's head on his left shoulder, staring at the two despairing nations with equal interest. She watched France softly leaned back as trickles of tears flowed freely from his eyes, but he made no move to clear them away. Instead he rested his arms on his lap and pressed the side of his head against the cooling window. A bittersweet smile graced his lips and he crooned a tune under his breath. He seemed troubled.

She averted her gaze to English man adjacent to him. She observed England's body trembled harder as he tried to contain a pitiful sob, bringing his hands to cover his mouth and stifle the sound. He looked terribly angry, as if he was angrier that he was crying in the first place. Quickly he brushed off the onslaught of tears with a rough sleeve, mumbling of his indecency. Silently she bought her snout to affectionately nip at Canada's ear as she watched the flying mint bunny whisper soothing words into the nation's ear.

"They're upset," she decided to whisper into Canada's ear. He only responded by smoothing her back, enjoying the fluffy white fur brush through his finger tips. He bit his bottom lip nervously. He couldn't help but glance at the mirror once more before averting his eyes away. Really, he had no idea what the hell was going on. All he was aware of was the souring mood that intensified at the Francis's arrival. He didn't think that it would actually progress to such a tense situation. In fact, he could barely breath in this atmosphere.

"What bought this on?" he wondered silently. He dared to spare Alfred a glance, who awarded him with a weary smile. Yes, he was just as curious as he. They certainly didn't act like this when they were children. Sure, yes he had to admit, the two always had a toxic relationship with each other. But surely they acted civil towards each other, right?

* * *

><p><em>"Get out!" With a sword brandished in one hand, the other sliding for his disclosed dagger, England pointed the sharp blade in front of him with a fierce scowl. "You are not welcome here Francis!" he roared, sliding himself into a fighting stance. He, who disguised himself as a polite Englishman that struggled to care with two growing boys, was not afraid to show the true might of the English empire. He, who was the mightiest empire in the world, would gladly take the chance to show the unworthy their place. Especially this cretin in front of him.<em>

_The French man stood his ground, steely eyes surveying as if he was the piece of trash. He let out a cold sneer, lip curling up in contempt as his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Go ahead Angleterre," he spat out, "try to slay me down. Right here. I dare you." He made not one move for is own sword that dutifully kept itself inside his scabbard. Instead he raised his chin up, as if insinuating that he was a greater being than he, and smirked._

_"You are half-witted oaf," England spat, "Do you really think you are in any position to insult me?" He probed the blade against his chin slightly, a feral grin forming as he thought of the delicious blood that could easily spew out if he got so much as close to puncturing the carotid artery in his neck. Still Francis kept that sneer on his face, his eyes sharp and icy as he stared straight at his own. Suddenly it darted behind him and his sneer widened to a full blown victory grin._

_Before England could even react a small demanding voice interrupted him with a low, "What are you doing?" It took all of his will power not to turn around, a mistake that would have cost him his head, but he couldn't help the shiver that ran down his back. He forced himself to step back, readying his body to deflect any sort of attack._

_"Alfred," he hissed, "get back in the house. Now!" He watched Francis tensely, waiting for him to draw his sword. The blood almost drained from his face when he felt a small tug on the back of his coat. He felt America's little hands linger there for a second before he tugged once more with a forceful, "It's not polite to point swords at people."_

_If the situation wasn't as dangerous as it was, he would have spared a laugh. America, who spent the remainder of the two weeks since Matthew and his arrival reminding them of the 'rules', was still a small child with a carefree attitude. True, he understood why Alfred felt compelled to recite the 'rules' he complied by when he lived with the Old Maid, but it was a painfully apparent that he made no expectation to abide by his own rules. Thus, here he was flaunting himself in front of the enemy with out so much as a regard to his own feelings of the matter. It was only his sheer willpower that allowed him to keep his grip of the sword in his hand._

_"Alfred," he rasped out thrusting a hand back to dissuade any sort of movement from the boy, "I have no time for arguing. Get back inside!" He made a quick shooing movement, only to stop when Alfred slapped his hand away with a snort._

_"You're being rude."_

_Francis couldn't help but stifle a laugh. It was downright hilarious to find that such an appealing and charming petite garcon was being cared for the most intolerant boor in the known centuries. It was curious to find that this boy's personality did not diminish, oppressed by Arthur's insatiable lust for control. In any case, he was quite a smart little man for acting more reasonable than his said 'parent.' He couldn't help but shoot the child a pleased grin, quite aware that he was making the Englishman growl angrily. "It is alright little one," he said crouching down slightly to meet him at eye level, "we are merely greeting each other as...ah...acquaintances do. Oui?"_

_England huffed as he pulled Alfred behind him, making the boy yelp in surprise before sending a well placed glare his direction. England merely ignored it, scooping him closer with a tight armed lock. America only let out a frustrated scowl but let his face be squished against the man's hard chest securely. The tight-lipped, frustrated expression was quite amusing to look at it and would have sent Francis howling with laughter if the situation wasn't as tense as it was. "You," Arthur hissed, "you and I are none such acquaintances! If you've come for my sons than I will -"_

_"Surely you mean my son Angleterre," Francis exclaimed loudly as he eyed Alfred before snapping his eyes to the open door behind him, "the one that I am sure you are keeping behind that door."_

_"Get out!' Arthur finally roared, thrusting his sword forward with a strong flick of the wrist. His livid expression was fierce with rage, hand flying for the dagger in his breast pocket. He drew it out not even a moment after, pointing it straight at France's face. "Matthew," he spat out, "is now my son! A father like you is unfit in god's eyes and I have every right to-"_

_It was then when Francis truly let out a laugh. He practically howled, the rumbling sound spewing out from his lips in an uncontrolled, unorthodox manner. Still, Alfred noted it didn't reach his eyes. When he finally looked at them, his face was red resembling a seething demon. He pointed a quivering finger at Arthur with a hard chuckle. "You," he snickered darkly, "You...you of all people should not say but one word." England could only make a small insulted squeak before Francis cut him off with another laugh._

_"H-how dare you s-"_

_"Oh?" the Frenchman chuckled, "You whose hands are stained with thousands of women and children! You who spat on the dead bodies of innocent young men! You who would not have the heart to help even the most desperate person! You," - he finally hissed jabbing his finger straight at the surprised nation - "who has the indecency, the audacity, to steal a young child away from his parent without so much as a word! Tell me Arthur, in what sense is that right in god's eyes!" It was a silent for a that one moment as the two stared at each other, one breathing heavily with every word that he had uttered. The other only stared at him for just a moment before slowly turning to the child next to him._

_America only had the time to let out a surprised cry before he was haphazardly pushed inside, the door slamming hard behind him. "Wait!" he cried clawing at the door furiously. It was jammed shut, as if England had magically whispered for them to stay closed. He pulled at the latch hard until it finally broke loose and he let out a frustrated cry. He could only press himself against the hard wood, straining his ears to hear the commotion. He could barely make out any sound, only hearing the hard clashing of metal against metal. Suddenly, a hard slam caused his head to hit away with devastating force. "Ugh!" he yelled fleeing from the cracking door. He stared bewildered at the crater the impact created and he was sure that his life was only spared due to his body's amazing resiliency._

_"Burn in hell!" he heard England cry. It followed with a hard crack, as if bone was crushed against bone with a sickening slap. Then there was coughing, a horrible wrenching sound coming from the throat, that made him squirm uncomfortably at the noise. He froze at the sickening laugh that followed after. He wasn't even sure whether it was England or France that laughed. It sounded so eerie, too menacing, that it made his little body shiver. The hard thumps continued and he was sure the two weren't using their swords any longer._

_Warily, he got up from his frozen position staring at the adjacent window in wonder. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to push the windows open and stare at the fighting scene just outside the cabin. Yet, there was a part of him ready to hold him back. That little voice in his head begged, absolutely pleaded, for him to stay put. To not look outside and see what these to nation's are capable of. It was too frightening of a scene. It was downright unnatural to see. It was a scene he wasn't sure he could survive to see. True, it was just two very strong men fighting. However, he knew this was a war. He had scene death and brutality before. Yet, these two men were special people. They weren't human. They were...abominations? Things that were made by god and cast away, somehow withering their way as leaders of mortal humans. They were supreme beings who symbolized conquering nations that were far more advanced then he. So to witness a fight between two unnatural beings was downright suicide._

_"Alfred?" He jumped at the small voice that managed to creep inside his subconscious. He turned to see his "older" brother Matthew leaning shyly against the doorway. He looked as if he had just woken, rubbing weakly at his purple eyes looking like a fair English milk maid. He cringed his nose in distaste. Was this boy a boy? He could barely tolerate this 'boy' in his presence and having him as a brother was a pathetic downgrade. "Que s'est-il passé?" he choose to ask, averting his eyes to the ground to deflect the boy's glare. He knew his new little brother hated him but the noise outside was unnerving._

_"English," the boy demanded with a simple snort. He turned his back from him to watch the door once more. Sure he knew French well, having enough settlers in his land, but he wasn't about to start speaking French to this boy like a familiar friend. Never._

_"S-sorry," Matthew whispered, "What happened?"_

_"What is happening," the boy corrected offhandedly with a quick snap. He rolled his eyes. Honestly, there is a difference between the past and the present._

_"Desolé," the boy whimpered out his chin sinking to his chin ashamed, "I-I mean..."_

_"Be quiet," the boy said sharply, "you're voice irritates me."_

_"...I'm sorry."_

_The boy turned to him quickly, causing him to jump back in surprise. He shivered at the blue eyes calculating him like a piece of meat. He has gotten use to this look, a look that Alfred often gave him when he stared at him too long. It was if he was trying to judge his worth. As if he deserved to know why he was here, if he good enough to be here. He knew the boy didn't like their presence. It was beyond clear he resented them limiting his movements. England, their new father, was the lifelong guardian that set his diplomatic affairs straight. He, as the older brother, was the one watch out for the boy and keep him out of trouble. And he wanted to know why. Of course Canada understood perfectly of his thoughts. What person who has been left alone for ages would suddenly appreciate the interference of strangers?_

_Yet, he wanted to yell at the boy and slap him hard against the face. He wanted to somehow shake of him of stupid thoughts to see his side of things. Certainly, he didn't ask to be here. He was perfectly content staying at his father's house. He was perfectly happy being protected by the French man. Now, he was pulled away from the man and shoved into an unwelcoming atmosphere. And he hated it. Still, he kept his mouth shut. It wasn't his character to voice his opinions. He was never a loud child. In fact, Norway and France thought he was mute when they first discovered him. But, today he felt like yelling at the child in front of him. He wasn't being fair. Not by a long shot._

_"I'm," he piped up, "I'm not sorry." He watched the child raise a curious eyebrow as he stared at him intently. Somehow he found the courage to continue on and said, "I do not care if...if you hate my voice. But...but you must...r-respect me. As an older brother!" He almost felt relief saying it but the look on Alfred's face made his blood run cold. Fearing the retaliation he may get he urged himself to speak more, for there was left unsaid. "You should not...not make me speak the English when you know Francais as good as me! And..a-and what do you know of what I feel? You do not! I do not want to be here as well Alfred! All this pointless fighting! It was also due to you!" He pointed a quivering finger at the surprised boy and exclaimed, "You are also to blame for this useless war! It was your people's actions that led up to it as well!"_

_The small rant left him heaving, but he was sure it was mostly due to nerves. He was sure that the boy absolutely despised him now. All of the chances he had to make the boy tolerate his existence had vanished into thin air. He shivered once more the consequences that popped into his head. What would happen once England leaves? Alfred had terrifying strength. What will happen if-_

_"Interesting," the boy suddenly said out loud. Canada flinched. What? He watched as the boy crept closer to him with an amused smirk. He almost screamed as he flew towards him slowly for he was sure he would get hit. Instead Alfred flew past him with a peculiar smile. He stopped shortly before passing through to door behind him to say, "You're papa is outside." And he watched amused as Canada's face turned white._

* * *

><p>"So?" Alfred pressed as he sank into the confides of his leather couch. He kept a steady gaze at his brother, who just entered moment's before. Matthew only shook his head and sighed. Alfred shook his head in disbelief and chose to fish out his phone from his pocket to read the time. "I guess we're not going to that pot-luck." It was expected. The sudden burst of tears had caught them off guard. So they had headed to the grocery quickly, fleeing in different directions until the cart was full before launching themselves back into Alfred's car with haste. Upon arriving home, England was barely coherent enough to stumble into the guest room with a small whimper while Francis made do by walking outside the wilted gardens. Alfred had pleaded for Matthew to say with him, at least until England was properly situated.<p>

"No," Matthew said in disappointment, "not with England's...uhm...condition." It was truly a disappointment not to go. Hell, it was almost stupid. All of his belongings were in a room right next to Francis. He could have just walked right next door to join the party, yet he allowed himself to stay beside England and America's side for the night. Now he won't see Gil and he was certain he would receive a furious voice mail tomorrow.

It was then when Alfred snorted offhandedly and looked up at him with a disbelieving expression. "Oh come on Mattie," he said rolling his eyes, "you act like he's dying of an incurable disease."

"Yes..but.."

"Okay," the American said raising his palms up in defeat, "I admit he got all emotional and junk in the car but I think he's just going through some phase or something. Maybe he's like PMSing ya know? Like, just give him some Tylenol and he'll be fine!"

Matthew dropped himself beside him and shot him an entertained look. "He's not a girl," he pointed out logically, "he can't PMS like women do."

"I'm being serious," the American said leaning his head back, "Men can PMS too you know. Especially if they hit 'menopause.' A drop in their testosterone levels can make men feel symptoms of menopause. I mean England's team did that study right? Of course, we concluded it was probably due to an unhealthy life style, which could happen to. You think all that weird food he's been grilling finally got to him?" The serious look America sported made Canada laugh lightly.

"I hardly doubt it," he said as he eyed to playing television to avert his attention, "England's stomach are nerves of steel." America only nodded and he too looked at the television in front of them. He looked deep in thought, turning to the Canadian slightly and opened his mouth. Whatever he meant to say, stayed in his throat and he shook his head. "Nah." Matthew shrugged and looked away. They stayed silent for a minute as they both tried to assess the situation.

"So," the American piped up, "What should we do now?"

"I...," the Canadian trailed off, "can you tell Francis to go ahead to the potluck? I'll try to talk to Dad again. Maybe he'll feel up to going to the party again?" Alfred gave him a thumbs up as he scrolled down his numerous list of contacts to find the French man's name. As he did, Matthew made his way to the guest bed room where Alfred had heaved a sobbing England into the soft cushions of a King sized bed.

Knocking softly, he poked his head in to find England in the exact same position he had left him in. He was leaning against the headboard, rocking his head back and forth as he ignored the dull thump it created against the oak wood. Silent tears ran down his sullen cheeks, his eyes staring at nothing. Honestly, it reminded him of an extremely reversed chick flick that America would laugh at. He was almost glad that he had sent the nation away to solve other problems for his laugh would just escalate things to another level. England was as vulnerable enough as it is.

Of course, he wasn't even sure why England was acting like he was. Normally, England was a confident man. He was small of his size, but was just as intimidating. He still held a great degree of power that he enjoyed to use as an opposing force to any, if not all, of America's outlandish ideas. He always kept a fierce facade, the face of a warrior that was graceful and civilized enough to become a gentleman. He was probably the most conscious of his manners, to the point where he insisted that everyone do the same. Now, however, he wasn't any of that.

"England?" he gently said aloud to rouse the nation from his tangent. The nation flinched before sending a weary gaze to the door.

"Oh...Matthew darling," he whispered, "I didn't see you there." He crept closer, watching as England seemed to jump at every step. He gulped nervously? Was it something he did? He sat himself next to the nation, curling his knees and tucking them under him as he leaned closer.

"England," he began, "why are you crying? Are you hurt anywhere?"

The nation chuckled weakly, taking a palm and brushing the tears away embarrassed. "Nothing," he rasped, "nothing at all. It's nothing to worry about darling. It's just...it's a silly matter." He knew the young lad was unconvinced. He never got away with lying to Matthew. The boy was too perceptive for his own good. Naturally, it was both a good and a bad thing.

"Was it...was it something Alfred and I said?" And just like that Matthew nailed right on the head. Yes, he admit. Hearing Matthew call France "Papa" was painful. It was embarrassing to admit, but there it is. He knew he should have gotten over it. The Seven Years War, or The French and Indian War in American terms, was all said and done. Yes, he had won that war. His moment of glory was said and done. He had stolen all the Frog's hopes, dreams, and happiness. He practically had the world in his hands. And then his moment was over. He had accepted that a long time ago. And yet...

"Was it because of Papa?" Just the word send him reeling in despair. He wasn't over all of it. Just hearing the word made him wallow in sadness. It reminded him of all he had lost, all he had let slip through his fingers in one foul swoop. Centuries before he was naive, too damn arrogant, to shield his heart from the little children that he had come to care for. Yes, yes, it was true he held a soft spot for all of them. But each time they had succeeded, left him to grow up, a little piece of him cracked. Yes, admittedly it was America's departure that sent him over the edge. He had barely just clung on to dear life at the thought that he still had someone to care for. When they all left,one by one, his whole world shattered. And he expected it. They were growing up right?

He shivered as Matthew's hands wormed his way on top of his. He cracked a bittersweet smile and said, "I remember when you use to do this." He turned his head slightly to look at he nation in the eye, "You were quite little back then of course. Just barely up my hip. You should cry at night and call out, and I would hold you until you went to sleep. You would hold my hand, just like this." He watched Matthew give him a confused but gentle smile. His purple eyes flashed, reminiscing along with him.

"You always sang me to sleep," he recalled.

England nodded, squeezing his hand as he continued, "You're hand was so small back then. And you would ask when Alfred would finally let you in and accept you as a brother. It was tough, but you managed didn't you?" - Matthew nodded cracking a grin - "Yes, you two were inseparable after that. Always going about doing something together. And then..." Matthew watched as England's emerald eyes clouded over and he fought back the tears, "A-America left."

Matthew dared to look straight at him, purple eyes digging straight at his soul. "Is this what is bothering you?"

England took a sharp intake of breath, trying to control the emotional turmoil that was about to spew out. He was stronger than this damn it! What happened to the mighty English empire! Oddly enough the feeling overtook him, and he was hit with a force of devastating dread. His unoccupied hand pressed itself on his chest, finding his heart beating too erratically for his liking. Suddenly, the room began to spin and he found himself rocking back and forth trying to steady himself. Yet, none of that mattered to him. Wildly, he turned to Matthew with an astounded and doleful expression. His cracking whispered made Canada stare pitifully at him, unsure of what to say. "Why does everyone leave me, Matthew? Am I...am I that detested?"

"No! No! No!" the nation cried, "England we all love you! You're our father too! We still love you n-"

"Then why?" England whimpered pathetically, "you left me too Matthew." Matthew could only gape like fish, mouth opening and closing as if he needed air. He wasn't sure what to say the to nation. He had no intention of lying to him. He did it for his people, because it was the best for them. It was the best for him. Yes, that was the cruel reality of it. However, England of all nations should understand this. He has always been devoted to his nation, he should know what it feels like to do something that hard. He should, right?

"England-"

"This is pathetic." Both nation's jumped at the sound of France's voice. He was standing by the door frame, his figure leaning on it coolly as he surveyed the scene unfolding in front of him. Whatever he saw made his frown deepen. He sauntered over the bed, leaning closer until he crawled towards them and sat Indian style near their feet. "You," he pointed at England unabashed, "are taking things too far Arthur."

"Excuse me?" England squeaked indignantly, pushing himself back to get away from the French man. Canada opened his mouth, fearing that France's actions my escalate things to an unimaginable level, but was promptly closed shut at the warning look his father gave him.

"These feelings England, these abandonment issues. They are past their prime. I do not understand why you are feeling them now. It has been centuries!" He leaned forward with a calculated face and Matthew had to lean back, afraid he would eat both of them. "It is too pathetic, even more you."

"Papa!" Canada barked, "don't be so insensitive!"

France raised a hand for him to be silent as he watched the tired nation practically sunk lower into the bed. "Matthew," he said, "I think it is time you leave and let us talk."

"But-"

"S'il vous plait," Francis muttered, shooing him away. Matthew held his ground because he was sure that this discussion would turn out horribly. In fact, he was sure that he'd find several bodies parts scattered across of the room if he even dared to look away. If he was lucky, he might just find broken limbs and fallen teeth. If he was a lucky.

"I d-don't think that-"

"Oh leave them with their alone time Mattie," another voice interrupted them. America came with with a cocky grin, mimicking the posture France sported just minutes ago. He pulled at Matthew's hesitant arm and practically carried him out of the room like a sack of potatoes with a small chuckle, "the parents gotta have their alone time too... rekindle? Is that the right word?" He barely gave Matthew a chance to respond before he dropped the poor nation to the ground, eyes wide as he suddenly screamed, "Shit! The pie! The pie!" He clambered for the door, stopped suddenly just as he remembered of Matthew's existence, and turned back to grab the poor nation's left leg. With a fast pull, he hauled Matthew out of the room, ignoring the pathetic thrashing from the older nation. "What the fuck Mattie," they heard America grumble out the door, "did you gain weight? You're awfully heavy."

There was a sharp thump followed by a surprised yelp, before two distinct thuds were heard indicating two bodies being thrown on the hard wooden floor. "What the hell!" they heard America cry before he let out another muffled shout.

"I have not gained weight!" they heard an indignant Matthew shout out meekly. There was a sharp slap, skin against skin, before they heard America scramble away shouting. Francis only shook his head as he studied the door, unsure whether one of the two will burst in unannounced. Once he deduced that they would stay uninterrupted, he turned to a scowling Brit who was fingering his tie and kept a steady gaze at the plush pillows against his feet.

"Angleterre," the Frenchman began as he brought a hand out to clasp the shaking Brit's own and, "I am...sorry." As if England was burned, he withdrew his hand with a hasty gesture. He studied the Frenchman's face for a minute astounded before he looked away scowling once more.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"...Oui, but I have many things to say to you."

England turned his head back slightly and his emerald eyes trailed just behind the Francis's own head, to the flying animal that floated behind him. The green bunny gave a wide smile, sticking her paw out and gesturing him to continue the conversation. He huffed at her response. Honestly, this animal. She was always the reason for half, in not more, of the dafter things he's done in his life. His eyes trailed back to the Frenchman's face, who he found was staring at him intently. It seemed he was trying to form words in his head, to find anything in his severely-lacking English vocabulary that was not as demeaning or insulting as the others he's used in the past. Upon impulse he opened his mouth to beat him to the punch to say, "Well I do not-"

"I was not asking for your permission to speak Angleterre," the Frenchman snapped. England closed the gap in his mouth to sigh. Really, he wasn't looking for a fight. He was just sick right now. He was sick and tired of all of this emotional bullshit he subjected himself to. He was sick of pretending that he gave a damn about what the American spewed out, when he never spent one moment thinking of his own well being. He was sick of pretending everyday that he was half sane, so he could lead a regressing nation to the pits. And, now that he faced it, He was sick of hearing and seeing this man everywhere. So he just looked away, tired beyond belief. He just needed time to think. To wallow in his depression, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. Ale sounded nice too.

"Listen Arthur," the Frenchman sighed, "it is true you are a hard person to live with. Yes, you are a controlling, a snob, over attentive, and I would bet there are a few nations out there that would kill to cut your face off." England snorted. If this was a the French way of making someone feel better, then perhaps it would be considered intentional manslaughter rather than suicide when he did cut his throat with a knife to avoid hearing the rest. "But," the Francis continued, "but, that does not mean there are people are not people that care for you. Think of Alfred, and Matthew, and Peter, and your brothers, and-"

England began to laugh now, eyes pricking with tears as he turned to the man with red face. "Oh yes, they care very much!" he snicked sarcastically, "So much each and everyone of them up and left! Oh yes, so much love I get!"

"First of, your brothers still live with you," the Frenchman pointed out much to England's dismay, "and second, there is a fine line between leaving and growing up."

"They're the same you fool!"

"They most certainly are not!"

"Oh are they? Then enlighten me Francis. Enlighten me of America's defection, hm? How he up and left my care with a musket in hand, screaming -raging- how he's up and grown when he hasn't even got reputable armada! Enlighten me on how I found the house completely empty of Matthew's belongings, with only a damn single note with one single word staring at my face! Enlighten me on how Peter, a child who doesn't even have the ability to gain more land is pining for freedom because he says he's outgrown me!" By then the nation was wheezing hard, as his shrill screaming filled the room. Yet Francis made no move to stop his rant, because England truly needed this. "So tell me," England finished, "tell me how they aren't one and the same? Hm, what have you got?"

"You, sir, have problems," Francis chided.

"The hell with this! I don't want to hear any of your rubbish!"

Francis only laughed as he sat back to stretch his legs, "Then tell me this Arthur. You talk to them fairly often non? Did you not just spend the night in Alfred's house? Wasn't Matthew talking to just now? Didn't you get a call from Peter after you landed in the airport?" He watched England's agitated face soften for that one moment before looking annoyed.

"I fail to see your point."

"My point," Francis said rolling his eyes, "my point is that those children of yours are still in your life. Of course, they are older and have a need to get away from your sharp claws, but they are still there non?" The Brit sat there more a moment longer before sighing. He closed his tired eyes, placing his chin on his withdrawn knees, and muttered out softly to himself.

"You wouldn't understand."

"But I do."

Arthur crinkled his nose in annoyance and turned his face away. "No, you don't. You don't understand why I have this stupid...stupid need to know what's always happening to them. I..I-I just need to know okay? I just need to know that they're okay, that they're not hurt, that...that they're happy. I just...I-"

"You just want to be a part of their lives," Francis finished wisely. He offered a small understanding smile to the nation who popped his eyes open to give in an astounded look. "You," Francis continued as he reached over to pat the lame hand on the bed, "you have this uncontrollable, confusing need to still baby them and shower them with affection. Oui?"

England let out a tentative breath as his eyes began to water once more. "But they won't let me," he sorrowfully mourned, "they wouldn't let me do all of these things that I use to do. Oh god-" he choked slightly and let out a sad gasp- "you don't know how many times I want to just hold them in my arms and sing to them all night long..and..and then just live with this awful dread that they'll just wake one day all grown up and leave me like all the rest! You don't know how many times I cringe at how much I love the next one that toddles my way, just knowing how they'll grow and leave me be. I just can't! I can't!" Tearfully, he buried his head in his hands, ashamed at the pitiful display he's showing his rival. But the damn tears wouldn't stop and he had to make do with the sleeves of his shirt to wipe his tears and mucus away.

"Angleterre..."

"I don't expect you to understand this Francis," the British man snapped, "Not when you-"

"But I do," the nation said gently, "every nation who had colonies does Arthur." He leaned back to close his eyes. Suddenly, the feeling of crying overwhelmed him. Suddenly, he had the urge to cry. He wanted to cry of his failed relationships with his own children. How he abandoned some, how he used others. How, even through it all, they came back with a smile. And what did he do to deserve it? Sniffling he uttered out, "You think I do not think about those days when I had little Matthew in my arms? He was just a baby...so small...just like how Seychelles was. So...so utterly small." He could almost imagine their little hands enclosing around his, innocent eyes half-lidded with sleep. He could almost see a ghost of a smile on their face as he rocked them, softly crooning a French lullaby.

England let out a small chuckle, "And you wonder how you've gone to be a lucky man, to hold such a precious thing in your hands and know that they utterly depended on you and you alone. It's frightening."

"It is liberating."

"...It's the best damn thing that happened to me."

"And you can not help but love them all the same." The two stared at each other with silent agreement. As blue clashed with green, a small and meek smile found it's way on each of their faces. It was a face of camaraderie, of silent understanding that perhaps only selected few can understand. England hummed in defeat, leaning his head back to breathe in hard as he sent a critical eye his way.

"Looks like I'm not the only pathetic one." Francis only chuckled in response as he blinked away tears.

* * *

><p>"Yo, Mattie," America called as he pulled another pie from his oven, "you pressing your face against the door won't let you hear them better you know. Each bedroom is sound proof." He placed the pie carefully on the counter, silently congratulating himself for yet another miraculous perfection created by such skilled hands. He turned to Matthew sat down on one of the kitchen chairs in defeat. He placed an elbow against the kitchen nook and sighed as his chin found it's place on his open hand.<p>

"And why do you have soundproof bedrooms?" he questioned silently.

America gave him a silly grin, untying the Superman apron from his being, before answering with a simple, "You don't want to know."

"But I do."

America raised an amused eyebrow before taking his place opposite his brother. "Alright," he said with a bright smirk, "last summer I allowed Austria and Hungary to sleep here for the night. Something about the hotel they were staying at being barbaric or whatever. I'm pretty sure it was cuz Austria really wanted to tinker with the grand piano I set in the den." - Matthew rolled eyes before nodding for him to continue- "Anyway, I went to sleep early 'cuz I had to skitter down to the CDC earlier that day. In the middle of the night, I woke up and heard...things."

Matthew raised a confused eyebrow, "What things?"

"Things Mattie, things."

"Don't tell me you heard ghosts again?"

"Psh! No!" America defended waving to brush away the topic, "I heard Austria and Hungary totally sexing it all up on my grand piano. It was disgusting!" He caught sight of Matthew's flabbergasted expression and added, "Yep, I was gonna torch that shit in the backyard but gave it to Austria as a present instead. I'm sure he put it to good use." He watched Matthew make gagging face, turning away with a blush. He allowed a wolf whistle to pass his lips as he chided, "Oh Mattie's being a pervert again hm?"

The astounded and caught expression Matthew wore made America double over laughing. He pointed at the nation with a snide grin, matching that of a mischievous child. Matthew only buried his face in his hands, his face becoming another impossible red crimson. He let out an embarrassed whimper, muttering something to himself. "Don't tell me that you've spent time watching porn with Prussia and Germany. I know them Germans love their porn but-"

"I have not!" Matthew silently defended, his posture sinking down his chair. He chose to peek through the cracks of his hands, letting lavender clash with twinkling blue. America mimicked his previous posture, leaning against the counter with a lazy sigh. One eye was critically studying him, wearing a smile that was masking his urge to laugh again.

"Mhm," he hummed, "Mhm...sure. Of course you haven't. Anyway, stop worrying! It'll pass. Trust me!" He left it at that as he stood up, stretching slightly to examine the dozen pies cooling in the other counter. Upon seeing they were still perfect, he turned to the flabbergasted nation with yet another Hollywood smile. "So," he sang out, "How bout we make those ribs?" He rolled his sleeves together determined, snatching his Superman apron with one hand and trailing to the fridge with one fluid movement, "I think that baby's just about done chilling don't you?"

Matthew couldn't help but deliver him a small smile before looking at the time. Immediately he stood up, pushing the kitchen door open squeaking, "They've been in there too long!" He had only gone so far down the hall when America called back about how he was wasting his time. He scoffed in return, "Personally, I think those two will end up dead if we don't check up one them once or twice!" Ignoring the loud snicker America made at the comment, he left and made it to the last door on his left and opened without so much of a knock. And he screamed.

America rolled his eyes when he heard his brother stumble back stupidly, thrashing his arms about to try and open the kitchen door. "Pull Mattie," he called out as he reached for a big bowl. He turned to find his brother panting hard, a quivering hand pointed just down the hall. With a knife in hand, his apron snugly tied around his waste, and a nice piece of ribs staring back at him, he was almost annoyed at the sudden interruption. "Yes?" he questioned patiently, cocking his head in question for an effect. He watched as Matthew chose to catch his breathe before coughing out, "You should see this."

Bored, he turned away from the astounded man to pay careful attention to the food. "No," was his only reply as he took hold of the knife sharpener and began to sharpen his blade. True, he could have went along with the act and nonchalantly walk back into the guest room with a knowing smile, but the delicate meat was even more entertaining than whatever Matthew had seen. It wasn't like it was anything new.

"But-"

"Let me guess," he vocalized suddenly, "they were crying like a bunch of middle aged women watching a stupid tear-jerking chick flick." He didn't even bother to turn around as he ran the sharper against the other side of the knife, "then began to burst into helpless sobbing when they saw you. I bet England even tried to crawl out of bed, his hand extending to you like he might die. Am I right?"

He could almost hear Canada's jaw drop as he stuttered out, "H-how did you-"

America only smiled as he examined the blade, "I'm psychic." He doubted the other nation believed in his words, not that he cared either way. Yet, whatever anomaly Matthew had somehow seen transpire was quite a normal occurrence in his part. Though he wasn't sure it was healthy, it did happen now and again. The surprising silence enveloped the room and he heard Matthew take a hard gulp.

"Are you?"

America threw his head back to laugh as he finally turned to his brother. Eyes twinkling with mirth, he took in the brazen look Matthew was giving him. Now that was downright entertaining, for that one second of course. Instead of walking towards him, he directed himself to the spice cabinet and rummaged inside. He only awarded Matthew a passing glance before saying, "Nah, they do this all the time when they're drunk." As he closed the cabinet door, he found that Matthew had somehow materialized next to him with an imploring gaze.

"...W-what?"

"They do this when they're drunk."

"All the time?"

"No, yes. Sometimes. Depends on how much they drink really." America shrugged and turned away, "You're just lucky England didn't go all Saint Angel on you're ass. Though..." he stopped for moment to ponder his thoughts and gave Matthew a confounded look, "they didn't drink anything did they?" Before Matthew could even answer, Alfred's smiled back with sudden realization, "Ah, they were drinking wine during lunch right? Mhm...that explains it." He shrugged and thought nothing less of it. It wasn't like they were dying of alcohol poisoning or anything.

"Yes, but they didn't drink a lot right?" Matthew meekly offered.

"They drank four and a half bottles together," Alfred hummed, "I should know. I paid the meal, no thanks to you." All together, he deduced that the meal would be enough to feed three big families. Sadly, he had offered is credit card, berating himself for spending that much money. How could he when there many American families who could barely stay afloat? Pursing his lips for a moment, he deduced that he would be spending his meals in McDonalds staring at the ninety nine cents menu. He shrugged, that suited him just fine if he managed to save just enough money to reimburse himself. And then there was that car he totaled. Damn. "No more big wig restaurants, okay Mattie?"

All he got was silence as an answer. Wearily, Matthew trudged back to his chair and laid his head against the counter. Lazily, he watched as Kumajiro waddled into the room, a rabbit plushy bitten between her teeth. Looks like she's gone hunting in Alfred's living room. He frowned. When did she leave his side in the first place? He could have sworn she was just beside him. He shook his head and bit back a failed groan. Was he growing old? How could he have not noticed? How could he have not anything? Not the stench of wine, the amount of wine, the amused and face America wore once he entered the kitchen. True, America was just as dumbfounded in the car, but even he was able to figure it out eventually. He picked at his glasses cautiously. Did he need a stronger lens again?

"How long have they been doing this?" he glumly muttered out.

"Hm...? Dunno." America answered automatically. He turned to his brother with another bemused grin, "Isn't it funny?"

"Not at all."

"Oh? I think it is."

Matthew couldn't help but send Alfred a small glare, "They're dealing with emotional problems you know." He failed to understand the humor America could find in this. It wasn't everyday he would find two grown men, two mighty nations, sobbing in a king sized bed together. Hell, it was bizarre. If anything, he would have insisted they visit a shrink, though even he knew they would fail to understand the complexities a nation had to deal with on a daily basis. Still, visiting one couldn't hurt right? "We should find them some help. Why didn't you take them anywhere? Can't we help them?"

He watched as America hummed once more before sending a wink his way. "Can we now?" Matthew raised an eyebrow and America laughed silently, "Curious isn't it?" With that, he turned away once more leaving Matthew's head reeling. What? What did that mean? He pouted slightly, glaring at the American. Every time he talked to his brother it was like this. This constant puzzling answers that left him tearing his hair out. He wasn't even sure if it was an idiotic tendency of his or an inbred compulsive part of his nature to say something puzzling. True, America reflected his nation's gift of changing the English language, but he still kept that irritating way of his to spew out puzzling gibberish. He huffed. It was infuriating.

* * *

><p><em>"Alfred?"<em>

_"I told you not to follow me."_

_"B-but...Father said to-"_

_The America only turned his head enough snap back at the poor boy silently. His blue eyes smoldering slightly as he studied the trembling nation. Matthew's wispy blonde hair flew in all the directions, as if the wind was pushing him away as well. He stood arms wrapped firmly around himself, hands rubbing his cold skin as he tried to fend himself from the offending wind. The winter was drawing surprisingly closer this year and he flinched as the cold wind pressed daggers against his frail body. He bit his lip in concentration and wondered how Alfred managed to stay so naturally rooted in his stop since he rose before dawn._

_Of course that was hours ago, when the sky was still a menacing black and blue. He wasn't sure exactly when Alfred chose to creep away from his bed to the mound of dirt and vegetation he sat on now. The hill wasn't so big, but it was enough to stare at the growing village a mile away. It seemed Arthur liked his cabins away from people. Without a second thought, he stepped forward shivering to say, "Th-the light is coming up now Alfred. Father is g-going to wake soon."_

_America only looked away to gaze upon the brightening horizon, delighting at the sun struck hues in wonder. He always adored the delicate palette of rich vibrant colors that cascaded upon the top of the trees that indicated the rising sun, where the light would shine just right on the small development below. He always took it upon himself to watch the dawn, wondering whether or not it would be a good day. It was a time to relax, unwind, and stop thinking. However..._

_He sent Matthew a withering gaze, almost baffled why his 'brother' bothered to annoy his morning ritual now. He often wondered how exactly he managed to disturb his peace when he was as non-existent as the wind. So, like always, he turns away to entertain himself with the real wind who enjoyed caressing his face and tickling his nose. He found it's company, real or imaginative, was a welcome relief. If anything, it was more amusing then the brother that stood behind him. "Al," he heard Matthew say again, "L-let's go. I...I can make breakfast."_

_Alfred dared to glance back at him once more with a tempted smile. Well, wasn't that an grand offer? Still, his body stayed rooted to his spot and he eased out a sigh. The light had just grazed his face, warming him enough to stay content. He wasn't sure he would want to get up now. The warmth he felt was like that of a dear loved one, though he couldn't grasp the hand it belonged to. He was inclined to stay and actually think about it, but the sudden hand on his shoulder dragged it away from his clutches. "Come now...you'll get pneumonia."_

_He only chuckled at the comment. Please, there were higher chances being jumped by a bear then actually getting pneumonia. So he shook his head and shrugged the hand away. "I ought to stay here for a bit. You know, watch the scene." He indicated to the buzzing village below, where it's inhabitants were already awake. Matthew wasn't sure if there was scene to actually see, since there wasn't anything remotely exciting happening. Even more so, the distance was too far to judge who each person was. "It's amazing isn't it?" That only led to Matthew's eyebrows raising in curiosity. What's amazing? Alfred only gave a mysterious smile, if it was even a smile, and sighed. "Utterly amazing..."_

_"I-I'm sorry...what is?"_

_It took a moment longer for Alfred to answer, as his gazed followed the horizon. Suddenly his lips pursed, eyes clouded, and nose scrunched in distaste. Then he turned to Matthew to ponder. "I wonder myself," he said after a moment longer, "I suppose it's that." He pointed down to the village hesitantly with a puzzled expression. "Yes, I suppose it is," he clarified, nodding his head. He gestured at the village again with a brightened smile._

_"..."_

_"Don't you see it?" Alfred pressed, turning to face him._

_"U-uhm..."_

_With a frustrated sigh, Alfred straightened himself and placed a firm hand on Matthew's shoulder. He led in him in front of where he stood, standing behind him like a towering shadow and pointed straight at the lightened village eagerly. "Right there Matthew, see? Right there!"_

_"I don't-"_

_"Isn't it just magnificent? They're so big right? Right? Real sophisticated too!" Matthew bit his lip in confusion. He had no place to just disagree. What right had he, when it came to what Alfred saw as amazing or beautiful or radiant? It was clear, at least for now, that he was content with whatever beauty he saw in these small lodgings. Still, Matthew couldn't help but bite his lip in worry. He had the privilege to travel around Europe when he was in France's care. Thus, he marveled at the sights they visited when Francis was traveling. Paris was beautiful. London was dashingly handsome. Istanbul was a wonder in it's own right. The architecture was divine, monstrous, and godly in comparison to what he met in America. Here it was...robust._

_It was homely really. Small lodging made of the oak from their backyard, surrounded with a fort that made him tremble because there was a danger from the outside. The floors were dirt and mud, as opposed to the wood and marble he walked upon in Francis's manor. Then there was the sanitation, which was barely adequate. Still, what right had he to say anything when his own country as just the same? True, he hasn't stepped on the land he yearned to visit for years now but..._

_"If you don't like it, then just say so." Matthew jumped at the low voice that whispered in his ear. He turned to see a slightly disappointed America, sporting the small smile that made him even more nervous._

_"N-no! No! It's...it's not that!"_

_"I know that it's not the kind of place you are accustomed to so-"_

_"Yes!...No! But, it's just that-"_

_"I understand it was beautiful before," he averted his gaze from Matthew's reddening face to look down at the village below, "but I think it will grow to be one again." With that he turned away sharply, leaving Matthew rooted at the spot to digest his words. He watched as Alfred reached the bend of the clearing, expecting him to take the sharp turn towards their cabin. Instead he inched forward, brushing away the foliage to clear a path to the woods._

_"Wait! You can't just go in there!" Matthew squeaked. Without even thinking, he dashed off after the boy wishing to God that he may guide them both home before a fuming Brit could meet them with a purple face and a shoe in one hand. He scrambled to keep up with the boy, wondering exactly how the woods suddenly became hard to maneuver. He found him swinging his legs lazily as he sat against a hard, mossy tree brush. Silently he hummed a tune Canada couldn't distinguish. "Alfred...," he trailed off as he brushed foliage off his hair. America spared him a glance before giving a snort of amusement as he scrambled higher up the tree. "W-wait!" Matthew squeaked, grabbing hold of the trunk of the tree, "You shouldn't climb up so high!"_

_He wondered what urged him to follow the chuckling American higher up the tree until he was barely able to stick his head up as a reached the highest point of the tree. Momentarily he was blinded by the rising sun, until he felt America gently turn his head to the other side. Blinking through narrowed eyes, he gasped at the sight that invited him. It was pure, untamed wilderness. He could see the hills traced with hues of green, clashing perfectly with the captivating sky. And for once, he found something utterly amazing about it. It was reserved, to a point where one could lament at the loss of this habitat. So when he found that crescendo of trees suddenly halt that revealed an almost ugly, gaping outline of the village below, his smile sunk._

_"Do you see why I need England?" America suddenly asked, his voice a low and hushed whisper. Matthew almost jumped, quickly clasping hard against one branch to steady his hold._

_"Que?"_

_"It's hideous," America continued as he stared at the village, "I know it is."_

_"I-it's not..."_

_"If you don't know how to pass of a decent bluff then refrain yourself," America snapped as he raised an eyebrow._

_"I...d-dont-"_

_"I know it isn't London or Paris," Alfred said looking away, "but it will be. That's why I need England." Upon watching Matthew's confused face he explained, "he allows me to grow. He's insufferable but, I need him." Matthew stared at Alfred for a while, trying to process exactly what he meant._

_"I thought...you liked him," he stated bluntly. He recalled to the times when he found Alfred beaming while he sashayed around with a wooden stick as a makeshift sword, one hand wildly waving around England's stolen pirate hat. One boot was hastily shoved on his left foot while the other pair thrown haphazardly around the room, much to England's dismay. It was during those peaceful and brutally loud times where he found that America would genuinely enjoy England's company. Though, technically it seemed he enjoyed England's flustered banter as he repeatedly failed to persuade him to drop his 'sword.'_

_Alfred stared at him as if he was blind. He shook his head, almost annoyed at the way he had to bluntly explain all of his reasoning to his suspicious 'blood brother' from the North. "The people here do not like him," he declared bluntly, "and that is why they came here to me."_

_"But-"_

_"Those people," Alfred interrupted pointing to the village, "came here willingly to escape persecution they faced in England. Even Rosa..." he trailed of silently as if to honor his dead loved one, "she came here in order to find a better life for herself." Matthew nodded silently, closing his mouth in fear of insulting Alfred more. He was always more emotional when it came to talking about dear old maid Rosa, who he spent the majority of his years toddling about holding on to her petticoats._

_"But," Alfred interjected as his voice became ridiculously hoarse that it made Matthew shiver, "they still consider themselves Englishman. They are not my people."_

_"But they l-live here, in your land. How can they be-?"_

_Alfred gave him a bittersweet smile, "And what about you hm? Are your people Canadians or Frenchmen?" He almost chuckled when he found that he's caught Matthew in a self-induced trap. The boy looked almost confused, unsure whether or not he meant to be so scathingly hurtful. "Didn't you ever wonder why it took so long for you to grow? We lived for centuries didn't we? And it is only now, with the interference of the Europeans, do we begin to grow."_

_It was then when the realization dawned upon Matthew like a bolt of lightning. That's right. His entire youth was spent as a toddler in the savage terrain of the frozen north woods. It wasn't until he found himself in France's care, much to his absolute protest, did he begin to grow. Of course, growth was tempered and slow but he noticed the difference in height now. Those small communities, a pitiful relic compared to the mass cities of Europe, were the start of development for the both of them. He almost marveled at that simplistic fact, unsure why it had taken far to long to realize something so simplistic. He stared at his brother for a long while, taking in the golden gleam of his wind swept hair. Since when did Alfred possession a sense of sight that even he couldn't grasp?_

_"That's why we need England," he voiced out, though he wasn't sure if he was concluding something profound or merely restating an obvious fact. Alfred raised another eyebrow before nodding._

_"We can give them the quantities they need for success," he said pointing at the fallen trees just close to the village edge, "but we cannot cultivate that alone. I need England." Well of course, Matthew agreed. England was a means of trade. Of connections. Of power. His armada was unstoppable. His empire was insatiable. It stretched forth from his own homeland to the open world like a plague. But..._

_"So...you do not like England?" Matthew asked in curiosity. Dependence and need do not always go hand in hand after all. Personally, he found that he did not mind England. There are times where he was tempted to stab the man with his own bloody sword when he thought of his cruel confrontation with his father, but he was not stupid enough to do any of that. He was around long enough to know the spoils and victories of war. He was also wise enough to understand the ultimate helplessness of his situation to stand against a mighty empire. Even if he did embroidery better than any women he's seen or sang romantic lulls that made only old women swoon, he was a mighty enemy._

_America laughed as question entirely, "To like and to need come in the same hand Matthew," he chuckled, "to need someone will make someone inevitable like them because they satisfy those needs right?"_

_"Yes but-" Once again he was cut short when America suddenly swung himself forward. He let out a whooping yell, hands flying up just enough for him to jump. Matthew's face almost turned white as he watched America drop himself to the ground, arms and legs landing gracefully on the vegetation below like a graceful mountain cat. His blue eyes mischievously twinkled as he glanced above with a grin._

_"Who said I did not like him?" he shouted just enough for him to hear. He turned away, casually towards the bend of the trees and away from sight. "Best come down fast," he sang out tauntingly, "England would be outraged if he found us wandering alone so far."_

_"W-wait!" Matthew screamed as he scrambled to climb back down, "Wait! Alfred!"_

* * *

><p>"So...what are we going to do with them?" Matthew whispered quietly as he loomed just behind a snickering Alfred to find the two drunk nations muttering in their sleep. He watched as England, slumped against the head of the bed, snort and hastily kicked a sleeping Francis in the back. France, who spread himself like a stretched cat on the foot of the bed, only grumbled in response before his hand unconsciously flew up to award the Brit a small punch in the leg. He shook his head and sighed. Even in their dreams they're mortal enemies.<p>

"Nothing really," Alfred said as he stepped forward and directed himself to the sliding closet. He bought forth two blankets and threw one over to Matthew without even a glance. He stepped forward and encased the muttering Brit with one graceful move before adding, "just make sure they don't choke on anything. Except maybe their spit." Ignoring the disgusted look Matthew gave him, they boy stepped forward to loosen both men's ties.

After a satisfying look over, Matthew turned away. He had enough babysitting for now. He wasn't sure exactly how to handle two drunk fathers. Yet, he found America's large, hot hand halted his retreat. He turned to find Alfred beaming at him with a marker in hand.

"So now," Alfred said chuckling, "we get to blackmail them."

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> Augh! Too long chapter. I thought I was going to die. I feel like my fingers are going to fall off since the heater is turned off. Oh yes, sorry for grammatical/spelling/etc mistakes. I don't proofread. I know, I should.

Anyway, it was in this chapter where I felt I needed to establish what America's relationships are before and after. I hated, absolutely hated, how people never got to the fact that America was colonized by people the really left Europe due to religious persecution, no land, no opportunities, etc. While it was good and well the America was so damn clingy with his parents, it never fit the sentiment that America started as an isolationist nation for many reason. But of course, there was connections with family, trade, etc that was vital for growth, thus letting America prosper. I hope that this chapter cleared up some stuff.

But probably not. Cheers!

P.S. Belated Happy Holidays, Happy New Years, and Happy Early Valentines Day (because I'm sure I won't make it to then).


	5. Chapter 5

**Note:** Salut, Troublesome_monkey_dono signing on! Where has the time gone? It's the next year already and here I am procrastinating for midterms. Oh gosh, colleges will love my work ethic. Anyway, off you go and marvel at America's odd problems.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Transition<strong>

* * *

><p>There were very few momentous occasions when Matthew had the displeasure of watching Alfred actually be angry. Alfred, despite being impulsively boisterous, was a naturally happy person. Ever since their encounter, though rough and tense, he remained quite...civil. True, he has faced a seething Alfred during times of war, but he couldn't recall seeing the nation livid. Most of the time he was almost unceasingly optimistic, always bursting with laughter. If he knew any better, Alfred just oozed sunshine and rainbows. Yes, of course he's gotten annoyed, tired, and much more. However, he refused to show it to anyone. Sometimes, he even hid it from him. It was almost a decade ago when he's seen the nation rave like he was now. Honestly, it was a frightening sight.<p>

"What do you mean they want to enter him in a trial!" Alfred yelled into the cellphone. Matthew flinched as he watched the nation's face give way to an angry snarl and his hands fly up in the air dramatically. "I agonized over his treatment for weeks! He's functioning fine isn't he? He's getting the right amount of treatment right now! They are not ruining this!"

Matthew shivered. It was times like these when he wished England was around because he seemed to be the only one who can easily pacify Alfred. He flicked his gaze back at the livid nation, whose face started to boil red. He hasn't seen Alfred's eyes this stormy since nine eleven. He cringed once more when Alfred shouted, "Bullshit! They can't use him as a fucking guinea pig! That shit doesn't work like that! You know very well what will happen if they let him enter some damn trial that could make him worse! What the hell are they thinking!" His purple eyes widened. He was sure, so sure, that Alfred was ready to crush the poor cellphone in his hands.

"Alfred..." he dared to whisper.

"I..he- What?" Alfred growled turning away from him, "There is no fucking way I'm allowing that crap to happen! I'm not going to let them ruin his miserable life anymore than we already had! You realize don't you? You realize what the fuck could happen! Think of his parents! Think of him!" He was yelling full volume now. Matthew warily as he paced to and fro, hands flying around haphazardly as if to find some victim to crush. He pushed Nantucket back roughly before turning towards the two nations in haste, "I don't care what the hell they want! I'm in charge of him! Tell those bastards to suck it!" With that he closed the phone and threw it away in anger. It landed with a horrid thud against his granite marble, flying into small little pieces in at the impact. Alfred surveyed it for a moment before muttering, "Shit."

It was a silent for just a brief moment before Matthew cleared his throat. It garnered the nation's attention, who seemingly snapped out of his angered trace. He jumped slightly, turning his clouded blue eyes towards them in shock. "Oh!" he muttered, "Uh...sorry 'bout that. They just...they were doing something incredibly stupid so..." He gave them a sheepish grin, before turning to pick up the pieces of his damaged cellphone.

Silently, Matthew followed him as he bent over to pick what was left of Alfred's screen. "Well," he tested casually, "what happened?"

He watched as Alfred gave a weary and angered huff before snorting out, "Some retard wanted to put Nate, this kid who has ALD, in a new trial for gene therapy." It seemed to be the only answer he wanted to give as he deposited the remains of his cellphone in the trash. He turned to find the curious of his brother before he elaborated once more, "ALD, basically, is fat build up in the blood system. An enzyme is suppose to like transport these fats to be burned, but because of a genetic defect it can't. When they build up, these fats somehow corrode the myelin in the brain – they're kind of like the plastic covering of the nerves. If they don't work, the nerves don't work. It renders the brain to be useless."

"Oh..." Alfred shrugged. He was sure Matthew wasn't familiar with what he was saying, nor would he really be that interested. He was a nation after all. He, along with other nations like him, had the sole responsibility to assist in their nation's well being. With the economic and political tension they faced, most nations don't have time to tend to different fields. However, Alfred somehow made time. He found that sleeping less, most times not sleeping at all, gave him plenty of time to assist in all different fields. Despite his incredibly thick personality, he silently revered his almost uncanny ability to memorize and organize information quickly. It came in handy when handling the issues of a super power.

Noticing the awkward tension surround the room, America cracked a grin and said, "So then, let's eat!" He made a motion to the food that was piled on his kitchen island, pushing Matthew to that direction. He turned away just slightly and excused himself for a while. Matthew only gave him a small worried look, before he closed the kitchen door on his face. Silently, he ran to his bedroom, muttering curses along the way.

"Stupid scientist and their damn know-it-all bullshit!" he huffed. Quickly, he rummaged through the drawer of his bedside table to withdraw a box. Opening it quickly, he grabbed hold of a new phone which he immediately opened. Yes, he did keep spare phones in his being that have the same contacts and information, which he patiently updated every week. He also made sure he had three phones on hand, since he had an uncanny ability to destroy his in a fit of fury. It cost a lot, that's true, but he usually got a discount due to his contributions in that field. He usually bought unfinished products straight from the company and finished it using his own design. It saved him quite a lot of money, even if it required more time for assembly.

"Why would they put him on an experimental trial when it's so obvious that there is more research to be done?" he hissed aloud. Shaking his head, he stomped away from his bedroom and trailed into the kitchen. Before he could reach the door, he was interrupted by the loud ring of the doorbell. "Oh what now?" he huffed out. Clearly, he wasn't in the mood to entertain any more people.

However, it seems lady luck was never on his side. He was greeted with an obnoxious noise, followed by a zealot screaming, "It is I, the awesome Prussia, here to grace you with my presence! Bow down to my-" Without even a second glance, Alfred slammed the door shut. He quickly bolted it closed and turned away with a sharp sigh. He cringed when he heard the obnoxious voice yell out, "Oi! You cunt! How dare you slam the door on awesome Prussia!"

"Bruder! That is not the way to address-"

"H-hai! It is improper to greet someone-"

"Ve- do you think America would like some pasta? Pasta makes everything-"

"Shut up Fratello! That stupid American-"

"If America wants good food then he should taste some of my dumplings-"

Alfred groaned, pushing all of his weight against the closed door. He almost slid down wearily, burying a face in his worn hands. He frowned, easing his fingers to massage his temples, groaning at the throbbing feeling he felt. The muffled voices seemed to grow more irate and loud, cutting each other unconditionally, until it sounded like a conundrum of witless and bothersome obscenities. Suddenly he heard erratic movement, as if a stampede of elephants paraded near his threshold. He almost screamed in frustration. Did they bother bringing more people? What the hell were they doing here? Couldn't they bother anyone else? Isn't there a Hooters somewhere that could possible entertain them? Oh god. He was NOT in the mood for this.

Shaking his head, he squared his shoulders and stood up straight. Fuck it. They're already outside his doorstep, quite sure he was willingly letting them in. So damn it, he was going to suck up his annoyance and greet them like any proper American host. After all, Americans were known for a good time right? So he set a Hollywood smile and willingly let his tense muscles relax. Swiftly he turned and opened the door as letting out a booming, "Hey, wassup dudes?"

He watched satisfied as they immediately shut up at his questioning gaze. Alfred hid his annoyance well, using a mask of sickeningly fake sweetness and unadulterated hospitality. He made sure he didn't flinch and held back a snarl when Prussia pushed past him shouting, "It's about time you worthless asshole!I-"

"Bruder!"

America let out another pacified smile, holding up a hand and said, "It's alright. Come in!" He ushered the group in, almost groaning at the number of nations that stormed his house. It was like a mini version of a UN meeting. He had half, if not most, of Europe entering his threshold. He was quite thankful that it was only China and Russia that came to represent Asia, otherwise he doubted he could fit all these people in here. Still, he wasn't even sure if the food he made would satisfy them. The Italian brothers were used to gourmet food, while China was just as picky. Rather, he wouldn't even bother eating any food that was not made in China. That is, if there were anything else in the world that wasn't manufactured by the ancient nation.

"Ah...American-san. We...I am very much sorry for the rude interruption." He found himself staring down at a bowing Japan. While the nation seemed sincere, he found that he wasn't really willing to believe the apology. Not that he didn't believe Japan was sincere, it was just that... he wasn't. It was a formality, something to say because it was just proper to say it. Nonetheless, there was no real emotion involved. Really, if you look at it that way, it was just simple politics.

So with an well ironed smile he only waved it off with a simple, "It's nothing Japan!" Then just like that, the simple return of diplomacy was made. They thought nothing of it, except a small budding annoyance that managed to worm it's way on America's face. "America-san?"

"What? Oh sorry, I was just thinking about what to feed you guys..." he trailed off silently. Both knew it wasn't close to the truth, but Alfred wasn't going to actually bother and tell the truth now. So Japan offered to whip something up, which Alfred accepted with just exact haste.

Before he could say anything else, the French man came flouncing ahead with an excited grin, holding two bottles of French champagne in both hands. It took just a moment to realize that he had somehow found his way inside his liquor cabinet. He grumbled silently. How the hell did he manage to get in there? Shrugging it away, he tried to move aside as the French man zoomed ahead to Prussia shouting, "Ah finally! Finally! You're all here!" He rolled his eyes. Figures. Of course he was the one that invited them.

"You should be excited to see the awesome Prussia!" America couldn't help but roll his eyes again. Honestly, this man. He made his way to the kitchen, allowing the aroma of the food he had made find it's way to the group of people. Like baby ducklings, it seemed that they had trailed after him, surprising this older brother sitting comfortably in his chair nursing a slice of pie.

"Wh...what?" Matthew squeaked in surprise. He hadn't heard them at all, but then again, it was impossible if Alfred sound proofed ALL of his rooms. Was that experience that scarring? He watched as the nations somehow magically attacked the food, while China and Japan started to prepare more. He shook his head. Wait, what was going on here?

Before he could even react, his face was obstructed by a thick coat, muffling his face against a very heavy, solid back. He squeaked silently, squirming as he pushed his face away. The hard weight on his lap only shifted silently to a comfortable position before he heard a sickeningly horrifying voice gleefully say, "Ah... America has already prepared food for me. That is nice of him, da?" The blood drained from his face, leaving him with nothing short of a horrid retching panic that engulfed his stomach enough to make him vomit. Of all people to forget his existence, it had to be Russia! He bought his hand just enough to lightly tap at the enormous nation, meekly saying, "Ah...excuse me...?"

Like before, the nation didn't notice as he picked at the pie with childish curiously. He even turned to one of the smaller nations to ask, "This is American food, da? Is that why it does not look so appetizing?" Even the incessant tapping for attention didn't divert his stare from the pie, making Matthew even more concerned for the dwindling circulation of his legs. The last time this happened, his legs were so numb he had to let Alfred physically move his legs enough to get the blood flowing. The next hour was spent being chased by the American 'to make sure that the docs don't have to chop off his legs,' as the Alfred put it.

"Ahm...Russia? C-can you perhaps..." he trailed of when he realized there was no way the mighty nation could hear him. Not when Russia was muttering darkly to himself, which made Matthew even more concerned with his own life. Frantically he turned to find salvation, only to realize that his savior had slipped away moments before. "Alfred!" he cried out softly, watching distraught as the golden boy slipped out the door without so much as a glance. A new cellphone was plastered against his ear as he stepped out. Well...shit.

* * *

><p>"Yes sir," Alfred muttered solemnly as he traced the marble lines on the floor idly. He listened for another minute before he interrupted with a small cough, "But sir, uhm...mister president, I understand the current situation in Afghanistan. Wouldn't it be better to pull out NATO members before more get hurt? I mean, yes, it's the UN that decides but..." he trailed of as he heard another rambled explanation, "Then would it be better if I personally apologize to Afghanistan. He and I aren't exactly on speaking terms, and he's just as upset over the burning of the Qur'an as his people, but he's civilized as any other nation and should be willing to at least talk."<p>

"I wouldn't count on that," someone snorted behind him. It didn't take a genius to realize the albino West German was breathing right behind his back. He could practically feel the Cheshire grin forming right behind him, as a heavy arm draped itself around his shoulders. Prussia chuckled, practically making America shiver in disgust, and said, "that old fart's fuming and you know it."

"Excuse me Mister President," Alfred continued smoothly, "something came up. I'll call you back." He didn't wait for any authorization to hang up, not that he needed one one, and shrugged the offending arm off. Prussia only cackled, cocking his head to the side in delight, as Alfred shot him a steely glare. "I'm not sure he'd enjoy being called an old fart either," he pointed out.

"He's an old fart," Prussia merely restated, "and I can vouch for it. The man's older than the awesome me and-"

"So you're saying you're an old fart too? That's cool of you to admit," Alfred shot back with a smirk. He was met with a flying beer can that narrowly collided with his face. "Hey! Don't litter man! Beer makes the damn floor sticky!" Prussia's red eyes narrowed for just a moment, face flaring with delight as he grabbed the last beer can he stuffed into his back pocket. He looked at it for just a moment with an almost mournful expression before popping it open and haphazardly throwing it to his target.

"Yo!" Alfred yelped as he tried to catch a sputtering can. With a quick flick of his hand he barely managed to catch it before it smashed against his glass case, but groaned when he realized that he caught it bottom up. He watched dreadfully as the last of the liquid seeped out, splattering nicely against his leather shoe. "Awe fuck!" he muttered to himself with a sigh.

He ignored Prussia's cackling enough to sidestep the puddle of beer and set the can on the glass table beside him. "That is what you get for insulting the great and awesome Prussia!" Rolling his eyes, Alfred merely turned away to survey the damage that was done. He was quite relieved to find that the glass case that contained his precious artifacts was still in tact. Smiling fondly as he stared at the case, he rubbed small beer stain he found near the corner of the glass.

"Hm? What do we have here?" Prussia leaned over beside him with a manic grin and Alfred had to force himself not to roll his eyes. He turned slightly away and shooed him away with a small gesture. He had no business being anymore than three feet from his memorabilia, and there was no way he was taking any chances with this German. Germany may be civil and boring enough to actually calmly survey the scene but his older brother had to use both eyes and hands to look at anything. There was NO WAY in hell would he ever allow Prussia to come close to even touching any of the items stored in this case.

"Nothing," was his sharp comeback. It was short, sweet and to the point. Of course, anything to that standard was fair game to the West German's ears. Therefore, he found that Alfred had given more than enough permission to reach out and open the glass. He bought forth an archaic musket, something that gave more than enough nostalgia.

"Hey! This shit is heavy! I forgot how hard it was to handle this!" He simply turned it from hand to hand, studying the musket carefully. He only turned when he heard America make a choking sound next to him. "Hm?" he muttered as met the petrified expression America was displaying. Alfred looked positively ashen, eyes wide open, and a gaping expression. He would have laughed if not for the reaction that came afterward. Almost instantly, America's face colored and his face set into a furious expression. Prussia didn't even realize the musket was taken away in another second, until Alfred had kicked him across the living room to crash arbitrarily against the coffee table.

"Scheiße! What the was that?" Prussia muttered, rubbing his sore back. He watched America practically sneer at him, holding the musket was if he was ready to actually skewer him with the bayonet. He wasn't at all intimidated, seeing as he was the one that trained the brat to fight in the first place, but he was wholly curious of the reaction in the first place. "What?" he pressed back.

America only crinkled his nose in distaste, before muttering darkly, "If anything happened to this, I swear..."

Prussia's gaze landed right on the weapon itself. It was archaic, but in mint condition. It was almost laughable to believe that Alfred would bother to care for it all these years. There certainly wasn't much value to that weapon and he was sure any gun would outmaneuver it in a heartbeat. In fact, water guns were probably a bigger threat. Perhaps only gun collectors would find it valuable, but the small gashes on it's sides would lower the value so much. He stood up straight, keeping an eye on the weapon before breathing in hard to say, "I get it."

America only watched him, blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. He made a move to cover the glass case, for he almost expected the German to coming running with a flying kick just to break it. If so, he was definitely ready to use the bayonet. It wasn't like he would readily die anyway. Fuck International Relations.

Prussia cocked his head just so, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Wasn't that the musket I gave you back then?"

"No, this musket is more important then the one you supplied me with!"

"Wasn't it the musket you used to roast venison?"

"No..."

* * *

><p><em>"Alfred, Washington is calling for you." Benjamin Walker watched as the young lad turned slightly backwards. His blond bangs obstructed his blue eyes for moment, before he blew them unceremoniously away. He awarded the older man with a grin, as he stood up from his position.<em>

_"Is he?" he asked excitedly. For a lad of fourteen, he was tall for his age. However, it was painfully obvious that he was still developing. The excited squeak in his voice destroyed the masculine appearance he was trying to achieve. He was still lanky, lacking muscles one needed to survive a battle. Yet, everyone of the men stationed in Valley Forge was aware of how much strength was bundled under his pathetic form. Even then, they dissuaded him from actually fighting because he was simply to young and too precious to do so. Instead, he was forced into aiding wounded soldiers, which was a chore for a young man of his age._

_"Aye," Walker merely said, "he wanted you to meet someone." He watched as Alfred dusted off his breeches before sauntering over, maneuvering his way around a dozen or so sleeping troops. Walker shook his head. The close quarters was hell on earth even past winter, but they needed to keep shelter until the heat broke the chilly days. Some of the men had fallen ill overnight, but he found solace in the fact that 'little' Alfred had been awake and busying himself to help them be more comfortable. Heavens, there was very little comfort you can give a fellow soldier but he managed._

_"Did someone come?" Alfred asked once they were outside. He kicked leisurely at the ground, toddling a small rock along the way. To Walker, he looked even more like a child. He supposed it wasn't a bad thing, but it enforced the idea that Alfred seemed too young to be fighting. Of course, there were plenty of lads younger than himself that were a part of the army, but even they would admit that this one is too young. Still, his presence was comforting soldiers who dearly missed their families. He acted as a source of motivation to win this war and get back home. For others, it was vexing to see him for that same reason._

_"Aye, a gentleman from Prussia."_

_"Prussia?" Alfred said looking up with suspicious eyes, "He ain't no Hessian is he?" He knew that not every German was a Hessian, seeing as his country had many people of German descent, but he found it unfair that the British would hire foreign soldiers to fight their war in the first place. True, they were good fighters, but even he knew some deserted their cause for a better life here._

_"No, heard he wrote a letter to Congress to volunteer his service. He's distinguished, I heard. Offered to train us fight."_

_"Distinguished, eh? How's he sounding?" _

_"Wouldn't know. The man can't speak a word of English." Alfred met him with a dubious gaze for a moment before shrugging. He didn't really mind speaking German for this man's benefit, but he wondered how he would begin teaching the other soldiers how to fight. They were bred countrymen who spoke English after all._

_"Ah, we're here. Go on," Walker held the tent open, using one arm to guide the lad inside. Alfred squinted a little due to a dimming of the light, before he refocused on the men that were seated on the on a small table crowding around pieces of parchment. Walker gave a fond soft smack on the back for encouragement, before taking his place beside the group._

_"Alfred my boy!" Washington greeted as he stood from his seat. Alfred awarded them with a bright smile, bowing just slightly before bounding forward to meet his superiors. His train of vision first began with Alexander Hamilton, who stood to the far left. Next to him was Nathanael Greene. Both men shot him a small smile, before their eyes lingered back to the documents before them. Next to them stood the prestigious General Washington, sporting his blue uniform and fingering a quill pen. The next man was unfamiliar to him, so it was a good venture to guess he was the Prussian officer who volunteered his services. _

_"Alfred this is General Baron Von Steuben," Washington gestured to the man who gave him a tense smile. He was an older gentlemen, which was not surprising at all. Most of the Generals were pass their prime age. Of course, he had no say in the matter despite the centuries he's lived. He still held the body of a pre-teen. _

_Steuben cleared his throat, standing full height and gruffly greeted with a , "Sehr erfreut."His stern facade broke into one of awkward hospitality, as if he was trying to judge exactly how to act courteous to a 'child.' Alfred watched for a mere moment. He seemed flashy, perhaps not as much as some flamboyant men he's met, but even more so than any of the men stationed in this camp. It was clear he was an eccentric and misunderstood man who held pride in himself. It was also evident that whatever he found, he was quite displeased about._

_"Guten Tag," he meekly smiled back with a small bow. _

_Suddenly, the man's face lit up and he pressed forward with an excited grin. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" Alfred almost cowered back in embarrassment before merely nodding with a small, "Ah...Ja?" He was assaulted with another barrage of a language that was definitely not German. Alfred wondered if he spoke to fast and slurred in his excitement. Steuben gleefully patted his head and turned to Washington with a smile. He muttered something to him, which Walker took the duty of interpreting. _

_Satisfied, Washington then turned to him as well and asked, "Well then, Alfred my boy, would you do a favor for me?" _

_Alfred merely shook his head, "No need to ask me nothing of that sort sir. I'll do it!" He was ready to do what was asked of him. He was annoyed enough when he was discouraged from fighting because of his age, even if he argued he was older than any of them by a long period. He was always given the small manual labor, but he found that caring for the sick and wounded was justified enough of a commitment for him to stay silent. Now, when the commander personally asked for his help, there was no way for him to deny it. _

_"Well then, would you assist Walker here and act as interpreter for Hamilton and Greene. They're creating a manual of sorts with General Stueben that we believe should be beneficial for the troops come spring." Alfred nodded minimally, almost dazed as he stared at the parchment the two men have been running over for the past few minutes. Even upside down, he knew that were words of he could hardly spew out. Sure he was literate, mostly due to England's obnoxious zeal with educating about the civilized world, but literacy and diplomacy were never an absolute forte simply because he couldn't care less about them. He was still young, despite all these years, and written words hardly appealed to him as scones and tea would to any idiot England would bother serving. _

_But of course, he was a country. A country that is in the midst of assembly, be it using the means of stiff diplomacy or waging a gruesome war. He knew, perhaps more than anyone, the complexity of these two means that were entwined together into a stiff rope. It was a man's tools; be it a useful instrument for greater good or a hangman's noose. Still, it was a tool. In the end, he was glad that it was being flexed and fixed into a sturdy device. So, as promised, he devoted the eve of spring into developing a manual of military regulations. It was rudimentary, a draft really, but it was important that Congress receives it and supply it to other companies. In the mean time, General Stueben, in all his Prussian zeal and eccentric passion, set forth to create the model army he's longed to see when he first arrived. _

_Alfred spent the bulk of his time by the General's side, as he followed along like a cute puppy by the Prussian officer's side as he surveyed the army. At first, he found himself visibly insulted at the mutterings Steuben uttered to him in German. "Disgusting! That is disgusting!" he would keep saying as he passed the troops. It would leave Alfred flinching, wondering whether he may shout at him back. Yes, he understood the pathetic difference between England's army and his own, but to outright call it 'disgusting' was demeaning. Yet, he kept his mouth shut because this General left little room to speak._

_After a week, Alfred found he liked this man. He was insulting in his banter, but he understood his position. Stueben, in a mess of German that only Alfred could perfectly understand, would walk up and down prodding and shouting at a brigade of soldiers. He would stand is tallest, face the nearest man, and mash out a mix of German words as he pointed a flaw that needed to be fixed. He would say, "Where is your shoes? You! You can't shoot for shit you pathetic excuse of a man! And you! And You too! You will die before you even step foot on the battlefield you worthless pile of worms! What is wrong with you all, you idiotic sons of bitches! Idiots! The lot of you! Idiots!" Of course, none of his words would get through the soldiers despite the heated glares, loud shouting, and exaggerated expressions. In frustration, Stueben would turn to Alfred and say, "You! Come here! Come! Curse at him for me!" _

_Of course, Alfred would refuse because he looked like a thirteen year old and it would be morally wrong to just speak ill of the elderly. Though, strictly speaking, his age was more than five times more than theirs. After about an hour of persuading Alfred to shout and scream, Stueben gave up and called forth an equally bothered Benjamin Walker. He could speak French well, so Stueben forced him to become his interpreter. Though comical to hear the man yell in a mix of German and French, Walker understood enough to deliver Stueben's commands with equal zeal. Alfred only chuckled in the background. _

_In another hour, Stueben had supplied him with his own musket and explained to him the importance of calculated and mechanical techniques to reload the weapon. Strictly speaking, a soldier who can effectively reload his weapon faster than the enemy has a higher percentage of surviving. Thus, the motions of loading and firing arms must be drilled until they are simple mechanical impulse. The new firing regulation that Stueben introduced were a complicated sounding twelve motion run. Complicated as they seem, they were far more simple than the regulations used by foreign armies and cut down the firing time by considerably. Alfred himself quickly became accustomed to it, much to Stueben's delight. Often he used him as an example for the men who were struggling. Over time, the troops even learned small bits of German due to Stueben's own constant shouting. It included words from; Feuer, Halt, and Dummkopf! (Fire, Stop, and Idiot!)_

_One day, Stueben called him with a pleased grin. Alfred almost thought he was pleased with the troops and their training, but he ruffled his head and laughed. "No, of course not!" he said merrily making Alfred look up curiously, " Actually, I have called a friend of mine to come here and help!" _

_"A friend?" Alfred repeated dumbly._

_"Ja, I use to have debates with him when we were in the bars. I think you will like him," the man said patting his head once more, "he's a character." _

_And once more, Stueben was right. As it turned out, Stueben's friend was his very own country. Alfred found himself face to face with the country of Prussia, who stared at him as if he were a little maggot. America felt a shiver crawl up his spine as he surveyed the nation. Prussia was very tall man and he shadowed Alfred like a preying vulture. "Well," he drawled out lazily, "so you're the brat France sided with hm? Don't look like much." Alfred crinkled his nose at the personal insult but he couldn't find his place to talk when Prussia's demon red eyes bore down at him with an unimpressed gaze. Slowly, he stalked up to him, pressed a hand on Alfred's head and stooped down to stare at Alfred's blue eyes._

_Alfred gulped, making the Prussian man grin like a wolf. "You look even stupider up close," he whispered. He chuckled as he watched the child's face redden in anger. Awkwardly, he patted Alfred's head again and said, "But you were smart enough to break your ties with that son of a bitch. You're okay in my book kid." He stood up abruptly, passing Alfred without so much as another word as he whistled down a few feet away. Suddenly he stopped for a moment, turning to Alfred with a bothered look to ask impatiently, "You haven't got beer have you?"_

* * *

><p>Arthur groaned, picking himself up from the bed, nursing a dreadful migraine. "Bloody hell," he muttered, "What happened?" His deteriorated vision managed to collect itself enough to distinguish the room. It definitely was America's guest room. He's spent years memorizing Alfred's taste in décor and surprisingly it was sleek for a grotesque glutton. If that wasn't any indication, the obvious American flag draped on the ceiling was another.<p>

"You fucking Prussian! Get the hell out of my living room!" Arthur flinched slightly, zoning to the narrow crack of the opened door. Suddenly, he was very grateful that Alfred sound proofed his rooms. He made a move to stand, only to stumble when the room swirled. "F-fuck," he croaked out, landing face first against the bed. Dammit all, why the hell is it so bloody hard to move? What the hell did he drink? This is the last time he French champagne. That stupid frog obviously slipped some sort of narcotic in it. Listlessly, he wondered why he even bothered drinking poison from that from in the first place.

After almost five minutes of meditating, he found enough strength to trail to the door to find what the commotion outside was all about. The sounds of bangs, grunts, and flying glass was enough to warrant attention. However, instead of turning left to the living room, he found himself gravitating into Alfred's bedroom down the end of the hall. In all honesty, he seldom entered the lad's room. Alfred didn't allow very many people inside, not that he would normally just stroll in anyway. He often thought that it would be a room full of cancerous mushrooms and poisonous mold.

Surprisingly, he found none of that. Instead, he found a normal room. True, it was not a sparking and germ-free room, but it was tolerate. One door closest to him on the left was half opened revealing a bathroom. He shook his head. There wasn't any money in the world that could provoke him to enter there. His vision trailed to the far right where Alfred's disheveled bed lay. Taking another step in, he stared at the large television just next to the bathroom door. In front of it was a large bean bag, where he found the cluttered mess of video games, CDs, and clothes. Perhaps the most surprising aspect of Alfred's room was the desk that was propped to the far right along with an organized bookshelf and file cabinet. The only dirty thing about that part of the room was the random crumbled and torn paper that had missed the trash can. Arthur shrugged. He wasn't even sure if Alfred actually used that part of the room.

Suddenly, his vision trailed back at that door slightly ajar. The small chained lock was swinging to and fro, as if lamenting the fact someone had forgotten to lock it. He frowned slightly. Why would it even have a lock? Just below it was another simple lock with it's counterpart on the floor. Then he trailed even further down to see that the door had an automated key lock. What the hell? He took a step forward, curiosity getting the better of him. What the bloody hell did the lad want to keep hidden inside? Gold? Important documents? ...Porn? Backtracking he silently agreed to himself. Yes, it was porn.

Still, he walked towards it. "Oh England! Don't!" quipped a voice behind him. He didn't have to turn to know it was Flying Mint Bunny. She was hovering just outside Alfred's door, darting eyes nervously looking around. She didn't like being here. She felt like she was intruding upon sacred ground. "England, let's go! Please?" England merely ignored her, pushing the door open and slipping in without any further encouragement. Not that he was getting any. He heard the fuming bunny squeal indignantly before zooming after him. "Ooohh! You can't! You can't just go in there! England!" He slammed the door just fast enough for him to close it on her face. He cringed at the sound he heard. She almost growled at him, a low purr of a hungry beast. He pressed hard on the door, pushing all of his weight on it as he tried to control his heartbeat.

"England!" He shivered at her tone. Oh god, he was dead the moment he stepped out of this room. There was a sharp thump against the door, causing England to lurch forward before gaining momentum to push himself back against the door. "Arthur Kirkland, if you don't open this door this instant I swear you will-" England shook his head and chose to ignore her. The room was dark, so his hands began a blind search for a light switch. He let out a small cheer of victory when he found on the far corner of the wall.

"Fuuuc...k," he let out, bloodshot eyes adjusting to the sudden introduction of light. He cracked one open, squinting just so to take in a visual of the room. It was relatively small actually, smaller than his walk in closet at home. What was surprising was the loaded bookshelves filled with...well...books. They hardly looked new, most leather bound and tied with either string, yarn, or leather strips. Each looked as if it traveled on a journey that aged them far too much for wear. England stepped forward, turning a sharp left to the closest bookshelf.

Rather, he almost ran to it, grabbing the closest one just to be sure it was an authentic book rather than some cardboard picture. He was almost surprised the leather bindings that practically sealed it shut. The book looked older than the most, some bits of paper sticking out, as if America merely shoved them all in there and binded it away. Curiously, he twiddled with the bindings until one gave way and fell mournfully to the ground. Staring at the leather bound book in his hands, he looked at the door for a mere second before randomly turning to a page. He couldn't help but stare at the age of a pages. This was definitely parchment paper that looked far too old, aged, and dirty to bother saving.

He turn back to the first page where he found it to simply say, "Military Encounters. Alfred F. Jones. 1." It was short, simple, and looked as if it was hastily scratched in. The number one looked smudged, as if the author, presumably America in this case, had not waited for the ink to fully dry. Without so much as a blink, he blindly turned to a random page once more. It was even dirtier then he thought. The page itself was yellowing with age, splashed with brown mud, blackened soot, and spotted ink. It seemed America was a rush to write. Never the less, it was 'legible' enough to read.

"Hm."

* * *

><p><em>1777, September 21st<em>

_ Granted permission to enter the front. Aye, Commander Washington was hesitant, but I prodded 'till he allowed me to join the foray. Offer aid, he says, because god knows we need it. Swallowed my first gulps of war. And now I say, 'tis but a bittersweet travesty bestowed upon civil forces. To think brothers-in-arms fight with red faces, amok fields of battered bodies, shewn over each other, fleet-fully avoiding carnage as the rush they rush towards clouds of gunpowder. Poor souls fall midway, arms, legs, heads flying in all direction with a shower of red. Ain't a pretty picture. Want to stop and help, but we pass dying men. Poor mortals weren't distinguished much by their uniform when they're dying were they? All looked the same, same expressions of fright and pain, them just knowing they'd be dead by the hour. Luckier ones were dead and gone already. So then I wonder, how fruitful this war is. Not so fruitful to the dying souls, not much to their families either. Fruitful to the country, to the nation, they say. I am the nation, that I am, the country clawing his way from 'the clutches of imperial servitude and fight a morally wrong.' Sounds damn good in paper, I say. I am a nation, true to the word, but I am a man of moral consciousness aren't I? _

_ By this consciousness, what moral virtues do I hold then, when I pass the innocent whose blood was spilled on my own selfishness. My behalf. Is this war equal in it's...importance when the bounty is as synonymous to mud, and thorns, and hunger, and despair, and dysentery, and hysteria and..._

_ Will I, me, allow my countrymen to endure these surmountable odds when they face the same end? All the same, I say. They say it's the 'turning point,' blasted turning point. Selfish, I am a selfish monster ain't I? Allowing them to battle just so, killing themselves, killing others. Not pretty. It's a pity, isn't it just? It's my duty to restore the peace, isn't it? It's craved by all, by and by they tell me, it'll come. Peace and separation. America, they say. But, isn't it clear that we've destroyed it? Seems to be farther away, isn't it? Waving goodbye. _

_ Expressed my thoughts to Washington two nights ago. Sporting a swelling cheek, carrying a new philosophy. War, he says, in all of it's suicidal madness, is as purifying as fire. Rekindle belief, wavered in months of running, he knows. 'You boy, America, sought out freedom deserved. Freedom synonymous to passion ignited in our warriors. This passion, he's reasoned, will be the soul that this little nation created that will ignite the world. It'll explode, a new democracy in it's place.' And I, whose mind was muddled in soot, need to rise up and be the voice. It ain't no way, no how, I am that nation. Not sure how, not sure why, but..._

_ Uncertainties aside, moral consciousness be damned for now, I must harden my soul to fight. It's the turning point, they say. If I have to pry it from Arthur's fingers, then so be it. 'Tis much realize, and it's enough they say, so I will win my freedom._

_Alfred F. Jones_

* * *

><p>Arthur let out a batted breath, shaking hands dropping the old journal to his lap. Two centuries ago this happened, two centuries ago. Humanity advanced, leaving nothing but remains of a distant past encased in museums and archaic literature and architecture. Yet, here Arthur found nauseated, as if he had just fought the war all over again.<p>

Yes, oh yes, he remembered Saratoga. His leg was wounded by a stray bullet, leaving him visibly limping until the end of the war. Even now, as he displayed the picture of perfect health, it throbbed as if he was just shot. He welcomed the pain, simply because the tabs were a relief to the memories that began to creep into his mind. They wormed themselves for him to see, and he was openly beginning to weep.

Saratoga, though not the bloodiest battle in the war, was a testament to the failed relationship he had worked so hard to build with the lad. And as he scanned Alfred's words and he realized it was the true beginning of a blossoming nation. The entry was jumbled, a stream of thoughts that didn't have enough power to truly supply the needed release Alfred was searching for. It was clear Alfred was trying to find words that could help explain to him how to cope, how to react perhaps, but it seemed that they failed him. Yes, it was Alfred's turning point. He supposed it was a good thing for him. It showed his true love for his people, for people in general, so much he was willing to stand aside from his own beliefs and mold himself into what his people believed he was or should be. It was what a nation does. A nation is loyal to their country, never mind their own thoughts on the matter. That was purely up for their people to decide.

In the end, he was thankful that Washington took reigns as Alfred's surrogate father. Though it saddened him to an extent, it was indeed better for him. He led Alfred to the good direction, as any father would, giving him the stability he would need to grow. He supposed that he had tried to the same. The difference was that he had failed in the end. He found himself stifling the lad's potential to grow, and it the end denying it all together.

It was the cause of war. Perhaps not literally, in the historical context of it all, but the underling cause between a war of a father and a son. Timidly, he caressed the worn pages of the journal softly, eyes and on the next entry.

_1777, October 7th_

_Saratoga is won. Must work quickly to bury the dead._

_A.F.J_

It was a short entry indeed. The rest was a diagram of the battlefield. It was a basic, rudimentary sketch of what had happened. Seeing it made Arthur cringe, so he turned away and closed the book once more. He let out a choked chuckle. He knew, as any country does, the difficulty of war. In this case, it was Alfred's real taste in the battlefield. In the end, the brutality of the war wasn't the hardest battle fought. They all battled the creeping guilt, the insanity bestowed upon them as they watched men fall. True, in the end, it really didn't matter what side they were in, but who they were. A fallen man, a dead man, was still a man. A person. He was sure, Alfred broke at the sight of a dead comrade. Naturally, Alfred was a humanist, whose love for life was marred with his association with death.

Often he wondered how Alfred coped. Personally, he drowned his sorrows with alcohol and solitude. He knew France compensated his mistakes with blind sexual encounters. Alfred, he supposed, coped by writing about it. Though, it wasn't really physical. He doubted that writing would do a man good as it would screaming, shouting, and all the bastard dealings he's done to cope. Really, he wasn't sure if it was really coping, if he just wrote about it. Emotions, after all, are peaked in this cases. He doubted that writing could just encase all of it. Even his drinking didn't, but then again. Alfred seemed happy most of the time, jugging projects, making ruckus, and using his wide abundance of energy for his benefit. So, is that how the lad coped?

"Mm." He grabbed blindly grabbed for another.

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><p>"What are you doing?" England shot up, half sprawled in a chasm of endless journals all opened about him. In one shaking hand, he clutched another leather book, its yellowed pages opened to an almost unreadable scribble of English. He met a heated gaze nervously, feeling that certain tense atmosphere quickly swallowing the room as Alfred took in the situation.<p>

"Ah..." Arthur trailed off. He was only met with silence as he watched Alfred dim away for a moment before locking the door behind him. America, in full stance, raised a quizzical eyebrow as his gaze returned to the open books that encircled the Brit on the ground. Some new, most old. Everyone of of them a testament of his life, of adventures of his youth, and confessions of hardships endured that he could hardly articulate into speech. The fragile papers held the very feeling and truth he vainly hid from the world. They were articles that bore his very soul.

And now, after centuries of careful and ceaseless writing, it has seen the light of day. In the end, all Alfred could do was panic. He could feel the blood rush to his neck, into his ears, then his face. His mouth barely opened, letting out a pathetic garble, before refusing to move at all. Utterly helpless eyes widened, heartbeat soaring, and clammy hands shaking. The pure emotion of shame practically spilled inside him. He stood there, feeling utterly naked, as if he was stripped of his armor. The humiliation began to pulse, beating hard as it struck him. He was suddenly overcome by a raging demon.

"What are you doing!" he demanded once more. Arthur felt himself shrink as he watched a furious American step forward like a hungry predator. America's nostrils flared, a rough hand clawing at the book in Arthur's hand as he shouted, "What the fuck are you doing!" Before he could even react, a solid foot implanted itslef against his chest, roughly pushing him to the ground like disowned doll. He grunted upon impact, a book barely cushioning his head against the cold wood.

"A-alfred!" he moaned out, a weak hand thrashing to pus the foot away. His head felt heavy, his hangover coming forward full swing. He urged Alfred away, only to find the applied more pressure until he could barely breath. If America applied more, he was sure that his ribs would give out. Pathetically, he looked up enough to see an enraged face watching him like viper. "!" Suddenly, Alfred pounced, crouching low as his foot replaced a sharp knee to the gut. Fuck, it was just like last night. He even found the same spot. Coughing, Arthur met face to face with the America before wheezing out, "L-let...go..."

Displeased, Alfred's freed hand encased it's way on the Brit's hair, clawing at it and tugging hard until he let out a small scream. "And then what?" he spat, "Going off to tell you little Parliament about how stupid I am? Going to tell them about my confidential secrets? Hm?" He roughly shoved the Brit's head back until it impacted the ground with a thud, "Going to try and manipulated me again are you, you snooping bastard? Is that it? Didn't you fucking get enough with the damn Zimmerman telegraph did you? You effin' son of a bitch!"

Arthur only groaned in response, two weak hands encasing America's tight grip. "I...I wouldn't..." he wheezed out. He sucked a breath of relief as America reluctantly got off. Meekly, he turned himself to the side, coughing and gasping for air. Alfred worsened his injuries from last night, leaving his torso battered and throbbing. Still, he ignored it as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He ignored the throbbing migraine and spinning dizziness to focus on his attacker.

Suddenly, he tensed when he felt a cold metal pressed itself against his temple. He didn't have to look to know what it was to know it was America's own hand crafted gun. "Alfred...bloody hell...wh- I..." he managed to choke out. He wasn't sure why this was happening. How is this even a possibility? Was this really reality? Was he still sleeping? Was his hangover so much that he's imagining things? As he heard the gun cock, it was then when he truly feared for his life. The growing sense of doom filled his stomach, rising to his chest until he was almost hyperventilation in shock. What the hell was happening here!

"Promise me," Alfred whispered in his ear, "Fucking promise me you will forget everything you ever saw in this room. This room never existed. You got me? It doesn't fucking exist!" Arthur gulped before nodding. Shivering, he watched as Alfred locked and pocketed the gun before dropping himself to lean against the door in front of him.

It remained unnaturally quiet in that room for more than thirty minutes. By then Arthur was too shocked to speak, rather he was to worried he'd get attacked once more. The only sound was the shallow breathing of both men. Still, Arthur kept a steady eye on Alfred who stared at him in response. Now, he wasn't sure if America was sane. He seemed psychotic, too much at times. But...he still seemed sane, but not. He shook his head. God he didn't know.

Suddenly, the silence was broken when America fully lifted his head up and quietly asked, "Does your chest hurt too much?"

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><p><strong>Note:<strong> Hi. So...this is much shorter than the rest of my chapters, but it seemed like this was a good place to stop. Eh, drama. I know. You know how hard it was to write that journal entry? I couldn't. Anyway...yah. I won't be updating for a while because I'll be too busy enjoying my Senior year. Haha, actually no. AP exams. Anyway. Ciao for now! :D


	6. Chapter 6

Note: Uhm, hello peoples. Troublesome-monkey-dono finally signing in! Yes, I'm not dead. And yes, I realize it's been like a year and I'm severely lacking in updating. Well I've been busy. First year college is torture! (NEVER COMMIT TO A LARGE SCALE FANFICTION WHEN YOU ARE TAKING A MED COURSE!) Even more so….first year college in SLU is….yah. Let's just say it's not the most pleasing experience but college is college. Even more than that, I find it quite hard to adjust to this new life here in a new country. Anyway…. Read on my darlings.

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><p>Chapter 6: Resolutions on One Side<p>

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><p><em>1767, the 30th of June<em>

_Boston is agitated. The men are angry and the women are fearful. Recently, 'deplorable old' King George has passed the Townshend Act. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Mister Revere said it to be an abomination to quarter soldiers that are not particularly civil with the public as it is to pay unreasonable taxes on imports. The regulars do not look particularly kind in my eyes, but they were sent to enforce these outrageous acts. They have plastered permanent scowls on their faces, as if they've been demoted to manure work. They seem to sneer as they pass and they agitate the men here by doing so. Still, it is a very small wave of British redcoats that have come. Perhaps thirty men in all. The people predict they shall arrive in droves, spewing into Boston harbor like a bloody flood. Mister Revere said they will soon drown Boston with their bloody presence. I'm not sure what that really means. I must wonder if Arthur is among them._

_"R-really lad," Arthur began gently as he patted America's still hand, "you don't have to read it out to me. I…I understand my mistake for coming here. I truly do respect your right of privacy s-so…."_

_America's blue eyes twinkled solemnly as he stared up at England from the ancient book in his hands. He smiled wearily, looking even more tired and uneasy than England himself. "You need to hear this Iggy. I've hidden this far too long." England shook his head again. Honestly, he couldn't do it. Arthur couldn't bring himself to sit still and listen. He couldn't honestly say that it was almost painful. He kept himself from flinching again as he pressed himself further into the wall. If God may be willing, he would gladly pass through the wall and slowly disappear._

_He kept a shaking hand against his thundering chest, half fearing that his heart may give out with all its erratic beating. Bring his knees closer to his chest, he placed a trembling chin on his knees and mournfully looked up to America. America sat in a lax position, as if he willed himself to stay relaxed. Still, even he could see that Alfred was hardly relaxed. While his body was forced to stay patiently tranquil, his arms were tensed as he held up the book. It was clear to the two that they were not ready for this confrontation. Not when Alfred was so keen to keep his secret books away from wandering eyes, while Arthur had spent practically three centuries running away from this very event._

_However, sooner or later one of them was bound to cave. It was hardly surprising that Alfred caved first. After the irrational attack on Arthur, one that even surprised the American, he found that his actions have been unhealthy. He certainly wasn't a self pitying masochist who found delight in locking away all of his thoughts in little notebooks. At the time, it was the only way he could sufficiently express his thoughts without voicing them allowed. He was never quite vocal about these things because he simply knew that no one could quite help him. Who could certainly help a troubled nation whose problems were more complicated than life itself? It was quite true he was vocal about a multitude of other things, most completely idiotic and redundant, but it was mostly done so he may change the topic as skillfully and as swiftly as he could. However, as the centuries past he would find himself a sobbing little wreck in this little room as he read of his mistake._

_He would end up regretting so many things he thought were once right. Why the hell would you do this Alfred?! What the fuck would you even do that?! Are you a fucking sadist?! You are a murderer aren't you!? How could you lead these people!? What makes you think that were even good enough!? All the insecurities he's tried to wipe away just splattered back in his face and he was drowning in them. He let in a shaking breath. Well no more. Not anymore._

_"We both need to hear this," he whispered hoarsely. He knew the implications of this confession of course. While he may be sure that he could perhaps take this and move on with his life, he wasn't so sure how his old caretaker would act. He knew how sensitive England was about this. The poor old man had beaten himself up for years of his failures. He could have helped of course. In fact, it should have been his duty to help, but that meant he'd have to deal with his own insecurities in the process. He wasn't ready for that._

_He glanced down at the worn leather bound book in his hand. The first step to reconciliation was practically spilling the problem on the table. How can someone bother to fix something when the problem was hardly recognized? He swallowed and gave a small cough to clear his constricting throat. Okay, he was ready for that._

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><p><em>1768, the 18th of October<em>

_Arthur is due to land in Boston tomorrow with a British fleet. The troops are hardly welcome, but they are not resisted. Matthew or Matthieu, as he insists his name is spelled, is actually quite relieved. He believes that Arthur's presence will soothe the increasing agitation in Boston. I want to scoff at his nonsense, but he is entirely too optimistic to believe me. Mattieu hardly leaves the sanctuary of the house. I could not complain for he is a downright bore at times. I find it surprising why God has blessed him the body of a boy when he is as domestic as many of the women here. I suppose he fails to understand the predicament because it is not his home that Arthur is particularly occupying. He says I simply have a problem with authority. He is correct of course. Many of the people of Boston could derive their ancestry back to a time when the British Empire had venomously opposed their existence. A hard lot of cursed men looking for a sanctuary, as Sir Adams would say. That very well may be the truth._

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><p><em>1768, the 21th of October<em>

_Arthur has landed two days later. He looks very much the same, though he's spoken about my sudden growth as a remarkable act of the Lord. It is hardly remarkable. He never bothered to visit as often as Matthieu would have liked. It is only natural for us to grow. Arthur says he is here to check on the progress of things. Apparently the old fool has commissioned more ships to be built and England is sore for more wood. They are stripping my backwoods like barbarians. The forest is hardly a forest now, but the people have exploited the new presence of land to build more tobacco. England is practically addicted to the stuff. I could care less for those leafy vegetables, but the profit it yields is rewarding enough for many of the folks to cultivate acres of it. I suppose that is a good thing._

_"Alfred please…." Arthur was close to begging now. "I can't do this now….I…I know what is coming and I…I just can't. Please! Please…please understand. I-I'm not-"_

_Alfred only ignored him as he delicately turned another page. He was barely listening to the poor flustered man beside him. His only current action to his words was to press himself harder against the door. There was no freaking way he was allowing England to leave now. So he kept on reading, much to the British man's utter dismay._

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><p><em>1770, the 5th of March<em>

_Boston is silent tonight. The city is in shock. The people's tongues have failed them and they flap helplessly as they wade in water. Then there is a transcendent groan, a small cry, and the people's tongues suddenly flail like wild fire. They've been shot. They've been shot, they whisper to each other. From house to house, alley to alley, they talk. They've been shot. The poor dears have been shot. Matthieu and I have witnessed it. Matthieu managed to haul me back inside the house before the bloody redcoats scurried away like little rats. He hasn't spoken a word about it since we have gone to bed. I am sure he's intent on keeping silent. It is expected._

_Three men are dead. I am certain of that. They were shot where they stood. I recognize one of them. Samuel Gray was the ropemaker that worked in John Gray's Ropeworks. He's a known agitator of sorts. A few men from the ropeworks were involved with a few British regulars days before. Many good men lost jobs due to the regulars seeking employment. "Honest living. It is merely a side job," as Matthieu would say. It is hardly honest when some regulars threatened their way through employment. Now the situation escalated itself tonight. A crowd had gathered taunting the twenty-night regiment on duty at King's Street. Matthieu and I joined the fray with curiosity, but we were banished to the back because of our small size. We were lucky, I suppose. A soldier was struck by a cudgel and the violence ensued._

_Gray had shouted, "Goddamn you, don't fire!" The Captain of the Regulars, Preston I believe, had yelled the same. There was confusion. There came a series of aimed bangs and the crowd and fled as quickly as they congregated. I saw Gray drop, along with two other poor men. Matthieu had grabbed my arm in desperation as he vainly pulled me along. We could not stop staring listlessly at the poor souls on the ground. Gray's head had been shot in the head and his skull lay open as it bled on the street. The other two in a similar manner, one in the chest and the other on the back. Two other men were grasping for life, but I reckon they will die as well. There were others injured, I am sure. I am not sure what became of the others. Matthieu and I fled before the regulars could do more damage. Matthieu begged to spend the night with me. I could hardly protest to that. I am fearful of the people's response to this. I hardly know how to react myself. Should I cry? Should I be angry? What should I do?_

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><p><em>1770, the 12th of March<em>

_The Boston Gazette published the incident today. Mister Revere's been boiling about the subject for a week now and has taken it upon himself to inform "the good people of this vile state of affairs where the people of Boston are most sourly oppressed." I suppose that is fancy speech for the bloody redcoats are off their bleeding hide. In furious spirits Mister Revere had engraved Sir Henry Penhalm's depicted image of the event to be published along with the Gazette. It has spread like wildfire around Boston. The people had devoured it as it came, eyes wild with fear, pity, and frustration. The Bloody Massacre, he coined it. The people are crying for justice. Missus Hicks had muttered of the 'injustice of letting men like Preston run amock with his savage lobsterbacks in the streets of Boston' as she whisked her sons away. Mister Revere had paid me a generous sum of money to distribute the newspaper. I could not protest to that, but Matthieu had._

_He claimed the story had been twisted. Mattieu and I knew Preston had not ordered the regulars to fire. That hardly quelled the anger. The image of the great British Army, the best in the world as England claims to be, firing on an unarmed crowd is a strong image to take in. As instructed, I had given many copies of the Gazette to the Nightriders to distribute. Mister Revere reckons by the coming months most of the thirteen colonies will know of this bloody massacre. He seems awfully proud of that fact. Matthieu and I are apprehensive. The British had sent word of the incident to England. We are not sure how Arthur would react. Not well, I imagine._

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><p>Alfred stared at the yellowing parchment on his lap. He didn't even remember saving a copy of that particular incident in this journal. Yet, he found a withering copy of the Boston Gazette in his hands. He couldn't help but let out a small little melancholic smile. He remembered this issue well. He had spent practically a week reading this issue over and over again until he could recite it with his eyes closed. He remembered he kept a copy inside his pillowcase that he would pull out at night and read under the dim moonlight. He would stare and stare at the picture that depicted the event with such a confused little face.<p>

He wasn't sure what he was feeling when he stared at it. It was a mix of everything he supposed. Frustration, anger, irritation, disgust, and a multitude of other emotion that left him completely confused. How was he supposed to react about this? Of course he didn't have to react. The people reacted for him. As a personification of a nation, their reaction is his reaction. But that didn't mean that Alfred F. Jones had a similar reaction than theirs.

That was the difference between normal humans and the personifications of nations. In psychological terms, perhaps their complex mind would be termed as 'multiple personality disorder.' Of course, it is hardly a disorder for the nations. To simply put, they are made of two separate entities. One personified their mother land to the bone and the other that was entirely their own. While the other reacted as popular consensus would react, the other would silently withdraw itself. That silent human side of each nation was simply their own mind. An entity derived from the fact that they were still gifted the right of humanity, whose thoughts and actions are all but their own. More times than none, these two entities butted heads with the superior personification winning. Sometimes Alfred wasn't entirely sure if he liked it that way.

"I remember that time," England suddenly spoke out, drawing Alfred away from his little contemplation. England shot clouded green eyes his way, shifting back and forth from his face to the parchment in his hand. "Oh yes…I remember it." Alfred simply sat back and stared. For once, he kept silent and let the Brit talk because he doesn't have a good thing to say.

Arthur's face dropped back into his knees and he sighed. "I-I thought Matthieu and you were shot." Alfred started to scowl once he saw the Brit's face practically crumple in self loathing, "I thought….Oh god. I thought you two w-were bleeding on the street and no one would bother helping you and…and when I got there I'd find your bodies in an unmarked ditch and I wouldn't-" he choked on his words suddenly and had a gasping fit at his sudden hyperventilated rant. Alfred simply watched as Arthur struggled to keep calm.

Arthur let in a batted breath as he tried to quell his furious beating heart. He took a while to gain himself, stoning his face and heart at the process. He was a veteran at quelling his feelings, and even if his chest stung in the most painful way, a part of him had yearned to reveal this for years."But the King…he wouldn't let me set sail. He said if I were to storm in there like a furious bear I would escalate things. S-said he wanted the situation contained in Boston." At the words the two couldn't help but snort in response. During that time, the British had no clue how connected the colonies were. The Nightriders had kept the line of communication open so that knowledge of the news spread throughout most of the colonies. The massacre was no secret.

"And yet the thirteen colonies were aware of the situation within a month," England finished with a bitter chuckle, "Much faster than when I received the news…." He trailed of silently as he wandered through his thoughts almost idly staring at the floor below him. Alfred sighed. He was half expecting the Brit to actually display irritation or some sort rather than the sad sort of melancholia he's been pathetically displaying for a while now.

"Then you went and spilled the bloody tea all over the damn harbor," England grumbled to himself. Alfred couldn't help but slip a little crooked smile. Honestly, sometimes that event shone light on the fact that he was very much a pubescent child at that time. The event, though a blatantly obvious act of rebellion against the remaining tea tax, was childish. If Alfred were to really look at it again, it was an ecological nightmare. It wasn't exactly another Gulf Coast disaster seeing as tea could readily dissolve more easily in water than oil, but nonetheless quite shocking to the waters of Boston Harbor. It wasn't any better that England had called it "an arrogant and childish display done by a pouting child." Still, he had a suspicion that Ireland at least had termed it as a "bloody good way to turn Artie's knickers on a twist."

"Twice actually," Alfred commented lightly. Arthur brushed it away with an irritated hand. He wasn't so keen on being reminded about how his precious tea was barbarously thrown overboard by a bunch of angry Bostonians docked in ridiculous American Indian garb. As a self proclaimed tea lover, it was quit an insult. Hell, if Alfred did that to China or Japan, he supposed they would be quite irritated with him as well. "You can't be too mad at me Iggy," Alfred added after a while, "You should know how important of a right we were protesting for. No taxation without representation right?" He was tempted to even wink at the scowling man, just to try and diffuse his hot head a bit.

Arthur merely sighed, placing a clenching jaw against his crossed arms as he drew himself closer. "Bloody hell Alfred," he whispered out as he watched the lad he'd always considered as his baby boy, "I don't understand how it became so…"

"Violent?" Alfred finished for him.

"Is there another word to describe the carnage?" was the sarcastic reply.

Alfred stared back, lips drawn in a thin line as his mind ran through multiple adjectives to properly describe how the situation had escalated so violently in such a short period of time. Staring back down at the worn pages of his journal, he nodded to himself. Now, head firmly set into the intended words, his head shot up and blue eyes studied the elder nation in front of him solidly. "Terrifying."

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><p><em>"You're a child Alfred! A bloody child!" Arthur seethed through his clenched teeth. "Don't you understand that you stupid boy!? STOP BEING DAFT!" He practically chocked on the words, ignoring the burning of his throat. His throat felt bare, hoarse from shouting, from screaming out words that were swallowed by the rusty air. Yet he refused to stop, ignoring the trembling weakness of his knees and the blood that soaked to the earth. All he focused on was the stupid, reckless, mindless fool that stood paces away clutching a musket with his dear life. By jove, he looked pathetic.<em>

_He took another stop, flinching at the shooting pain that seem to travel up his leg to his throbbing head. Still, he kept moving, one step after the other, refusing the yield to any sort of physical weakness that derailed his attempt to victory. Then suddenly the world spun, furiously like a whirlpool, until it returned to the ground where his head had suddenly fallen. "St-stop being daft..." he muttered again, a hand inching forward to pull his bloody body from the tangles of bodies in front of him. One hand clawed mindlessly on a corpse, tearing at the flesh of the wrecked arm before latching itself to the dead soldier's face. He ignored the cold liquid that made a wet slap against his palm, eyes still trailing after the shivering boy ahead. "Stupid...stupid boy..."_

_He tried vainly to push himself up, only to curse at the weakness of his arms. He groaned at his failing vision, damning all the heavens above as it swayed to and fro like pendulum, breaking his gaze from the boy. Now he wasn't aware of anything but the shooting pain of his body. The strain on his arms fell through and his jaw collided with the bony skeleton of another decimated man – at least what was left of him. He tried not the retch at the sound of the impact, only to wince at the odor that entered his nose. Centuries of bloodshed was not enough for him to tolerate the smell of death. "Reckless boy..." his voice trailed out. "Stupid boy..."_

_"..sh...sh-shut up!" the lad wailed. He could hear him scrambling up, trying vainly to roll his weapon. He didn't need open eyes to know that much. Still, he let out a smile, shifting away to lay on his back. The ground felt moist, not that it mattered, and the sun fried his forehead. God, it was suffocating. He was almost gasping for air when he heard the musket click and Alfred shouting, "I'm not stupid England! You know nothing about me!"_

_It was then when England opened his eyes, but even Alfred was aware that it was practically blinded. He managed to turn his head ever so slightly to rasp out, "Stupid." Then he felt the musket press itself on his jaw, Alfred pushing hard enough for his head to fly back and press into the dirt. That didn't do anything but widen the sickening smirk on his face. He could feel Alfred tremble and it was glorious. "Oh...Alfred," he almost sang out, "my little boy Alfred. Have I taught you nothing?"_

_"I-I'm not your-"_

_"Why?" Alfred stopped short of his sentence, blue eyes staring down at clouded green. When he was a boy he would have launched himself in Arthur's arms, then he would have slapped him awake until he could see again. He would see the confusion and paternal love that left him satisfied enough to grin. Now, his finger strained to hold himself from shooting. All he could feel now was anger. Pure unadulterated anger. He ached to do this, to destroy the thing that destroyed his happiness. And he dared to ask why? He just dared to -_

_"Stupid," he only spat out. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid Arthur. Selfish Arthur. Ugly Arthur. Tyrant. Brute. Ugly, stupid, selfish brute who followed an equally stupid tyrant. But of course he wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand the need he felt every single day. He had to win this. He knew he would die if he didn't and goddamn it, not even he could stop this. This was now about his survival, his people's survival. He bit his lip until it bleed and it wasn't enough. "Stupid!" he cried out again. "Stupid! You'll never understand it! You'll never-"_

_"You'll never understand it!" England practically mocked. Suddenly his face looked completely pain, straining from something that he could no longer hold back. "How stupid are you Alfred?! How stupid are you!" he screamed, "How could you want this? HOW?" A flying hand gestured around them, pointing at everything that they have destroyed. Alfred didn't dare look up. He refused. It would have made him sob for weeks. Their scenery was vicious. If hell was anywhere, it was here. And here he was, playing for the devil's throne._

_Oh, he yearned to stop. To get down to his knees and just sob it all away. He wanted to close his eyes until it all went away and he was home. Home to the forests, to a place where he may curl into a ball and sleep without worries. Yet those little voices in his ear were getting louder, until he had to rip himself away from all he wanted to yield to their demands. He was going mad. He glared down at the devil before him. He couldn't help but feel that lustful drink of vengeance as he pressed the musket harder down. "I never wanted this," he muttered, "You...you made this happen."_

_"And who is it that wanted to be a nation?" England barked out, "who was it that wouldn't follow orders? How was it that-"_

_"You were killing me!" Alfred roared, "You were draining me! You kept on taking and taking and fucking taking until you were leaving me dry! You started this you stupid sadist! You and your-"_

_He wasn't sure how the musket flew out of his hands, but suddenly he found himself kicked away with such a force that it almost broke his ribs. He landed hard against a pile of stones and bodies, groaning at the cracking impact. He watched pained as England heaved himself up, almost amazed that he had kept that strength bottled within in. England heaved himself up enough to award him a glare, looking at him with such disgust he was sure he wasn't the England he knew._

_"God you're stupid," he spat out as he limped towards him with a brandished dagger he had fished from his boot, "how could you just...I...how..." he chocked suddenly but managed to rasp out, "The stupidest thing you have ever done was to decide to be a nation." Alfred flinched when he suddenly found Arthur on top of him. His arm had pressed him down, another raised with the glinting blade. He struggled for a moment but was severely disturbed at the amount of strength Arthur was using to restrain him. He wasn't sure where the hell he suddenly found it._

_"You want to know why?" Arthur whispered in his ear. He could feel him spit out the words like venom, spraying his lobe with blood and saliva in the process. The hand that held the blade suddenly swooped down hard, attaching itself against his arm. Alfred howled against him. In his mindless thrashing he heard Arthur whisper, "You're their fucking puppet."_

* * *

><p>"I never understood. You know," Alfred muttered as he buried his face in his knees, "what you said back then." Arthur watched him carefully, before he decided to inch closer and nudge his face up. Alfred merely awarded him a weak smile. It didn't do anything but blossom the growing guilt that began to build in England's chest. He never did well dwelling back. "But, I suppose I understand what you mean now."<p>

Arthur merely cocked his head to the side, a contemplating look dawning upon his tired face. "Do you regret it?"

And Alfred stared at him, blank as ever. Slowly a smile rose, one that was so unlike his little boy's usual face. He smiled a smile that was so ancient, one sewn from wisdom and experience. So very different from his usual goofy smiles. "Absolutely not."

* * *

><p>"Alfred!" Canada moaned out in agony, "Alfred please!" He reached out blindly for the nation who had left the room hours ago. He couldn't feel it anymore. He couldn't feel anything under him. His lower limbs seemed frozen under the weight of the gigantic nation on his lap. Somehow, while Alfred had gone to do whatever, the nations had conjured their favorite form of liquor from seemingly nowhere and heartedly guzzled it down in all the merrymaking. Russia himself seemed content on sipping on his vodka, calmly sitting on the poor Canadian while he tortured the poor Baltic Nations who were cowering before him.<p>

Canada had all but given up home in being freed after he realized that finally the liquor had gotten to most of the nations. France himself was half stripped, wearing only a silk red man-thong, promptly throwing himself to any nation his drunken state deemed worthy enough to bang for the night. North Italy had already but snuggled on the back of a dozing Germany while Japan sat beside them arguing half coherent words to an equally incapacitated China. The rest of the nations were lounging about the Living Room making an awful ruckus. Matthew could only guess what was happening in that room for all he could see from the slightly opened door was Hungary and Belgium laughing at nothing in particular.

"The Awesome Prussia ish ab-bunzsh to show yous all wh-r mis-in!" he heard Prussia slur out from somewhere in the room. Moments after, he couldn't help but flinch once he heard the sound of breaking glass shatter on marbled floor followed by the Prussian cackling in delight. Matthew shook his head. Oh what the hell. Where the hell is any sense of order around here? They were nations for pete's sake! They were suppose to be the epitome of order. Yet, here they were in a drunken confusion often only depicted in college frat parties.

"Alfred!" he screamed out again. To no avail of course. The Russian had all but fallen asleep on him, one large hand grasping his bottle of vodka like a baby would his bottle. The dead weight seemed to increase more as the moments went on and Matthew was convinced that he'd have to be sent straight to be emergency room to get his lower half amputated. That is if he was lucky enough to even get out from under this half-ton nation.

And suddenly when all hope was lost, there he was. Alfred strode inside the kitchen, his usual goofy smile plastered on his Hollywood face, immediately taking note of the destruction of his precious kitchen. "What the fu-" was he let out before he finally caught sight of Matthew who had all begun to flail under the nation to gain Alfred's attention. "Mattie?"Alfred let out a confused comment as he walked over. An amused eyebrow rose as he studied Matthew's position.

"Get me out of here!" the Canadian all but screamed at him. Shrugging, Alfred had merely tugged on the poor nation's arm and Matthew had slid out evenly as if he had been smothered with butter. However by then, all the muscle power in the world would not make the nation stand on his own two feet. It left him stumbling forward with a messy cry, staggering about like a fish out of water.

"Woah there!" Alfred cried as he steadied his brother. He had all but thrown his hand under Matthew's arm to support his weight, taking note at the poor nation's cyanotic skin that poked out from exposed flesh. "Dude," he had scolded the Canadian as he practically threw Matthew into the island countertop to sit down. Stooping low, he exposed the feet, wincing as he uncovered even more cyanotic skin that was beginning to turn a darker purple. "How long have you been in there!?"

Matthew only had the heart to glare at him so, before his eyes suddenly watered in pain. Alfred no sense of tact as he started to massage the numbed limbs, which worried the Canadian when he felt no sensation whatsoever. "Awe Mattie," Alfred said smoothly, "You're a nation. This shit won't kill you, promise!"

Matthew sniffed, "I wouldn't be in this predicament if you simply came earlier!"

"Sorry dude, I had a moment with Iggy back there."

"You always have a moment."

Alfred beamed up at him as his trained hands went down to massage Matthew's exposed foot, "Are you jealous?"

* * *

><p>"Well Angleterre?" England flinched at the frog's accented English. He turned just enough to shove the Frenchman away from him before downing a large glass of gin. He pointedly ignored Francis's questioning face, making the man pout. He frowned slightly his face lighted idiotically in an almost perverted expression. With a suave grin he said, "You made the love in his bed oui?" He coupled it a strange wiggle of his eyebrows suggesting what he believed happened just an hour before.<p>

"Oh bugger off you perverted shrew!" England sighed as he swatted him away like an annoying mosquito, "We did nothing of the sort! Now will you leave me be!" He was in a god awful mood at the moment, and it was hardly tempered by the idiot that sat adjacent to him. In fact, he bought on the migraine he'd been trying to nurse since he left Alfred's room. Actually, it was more like he was tossed out by the emotional lad who promptly padlocked his door after closing it. It was clear that no one was allowed near his room. Not that he was willing to enter it after the beastly reaction that Alfred rewarded him. He doubted very few had ever witnessed him be so openly monstrous.

"Well then," the French man huffed before deflating in boredom, "what could you possibly do in his bedroom then?"

England only awarded him a small smack before downing the rest of his glass. "You can do a lot of other things instead of sex in a bedroom frog!" he hissed. He ignored France's comment about the importance of sex in the bedroom to add, "It was all diplomatic business, that is all! He just had to hand me some papers he's forgotten in the meeting." It wasn't that bad of a terrible lie. Besides, as a country, he was accustomed to lying in the first place. That is what politics really is about. Lies and smiles.

"Ah mais," interjected the pushing French nation, " we both know that America keeps all his documents in this study across the hall, oui? There is very little possibility he even carries any document of importance in his room where it could be lost. Now be nice Angleterre and divulge me some information." England rolled his eyes. My, he was terribly persistent. However, he swore to the pain of death he would say nothing about what he's seen and read in that room. Even if it concerned most of the nations that were present. More so, it wasn't good to actually open closed wounds. The history Alfred penned was of the ancient past, and most likely gladly buried as far as others were concerned. Now up to this moment, Alfred was finally moving over it as he readily tried to smoothen out his twisted relationship with his guardian.

Still, he sighed. They had all but discussed it already. Alfred had tried hard to finally bury the hatchet because it was high time that they both get over it. Still, here he was wallowing in all of it like a depressed teenage girl. He wasn't hardly ever a great role model when it came to moving on. Hell, he barely managed to stay afloat when hard memories became too unbearable for him. He almost sneered at that fact. To think the great and mighty English empire would be bought down to his knees by wee memories. Pathetic. He swirled his bottle before taking another sip. "There is nothing to divulge Frog. Now, if you excuse me." He almost had to push the French man away, until Francis practically glued him back to his seat.

"Ah…Alfred and you had a little disagreement. Hm?" he whispered in his ear. To his surprise, Arthur's face suddenly fell, as tears seemingly gathered in the corner of his eyes. He drew back astonished. Now this he hadn't seen in….god knows when. How old was Arthur when he started taking care of him again? Then again, his gaze flitted back to Arthur with an almost fond smile, wasn't he cute? Still, he doubted the ever present blush that dusted his cheeks were due to a burst of emotion. It was probably due to the alcohol he's been consuming nonstop. "Ah, I was right." He let out a sigh, "Why is it every time I leave you two alone there is always a fight? Why not sit down for a glass of champagne instead? Or…tea since that is all you consume during the day."

"It wasn't a fight frog," Arthur finally relented as he began to slump down into his seat. "I simply wasn't man enough to accept it yet." Francis, who was more than confused with comment stayed silent and pressed for the nation to go on. Arthur swirled the ale he was drinking as he thought for a moment. "I was never good at moving on was I?" he questioned aloud. The question was more to himself than the frog in particular.

At this Francis couldn't help but put his own two cents in. "Ah Angleterre, you and I both know that while you may be biologically a male, you have always been the female at the relationship. And a female always –" He was promptly cut off when the keg that Arthur had been holding had all put slapped him hard on the face. "A-angleterre!" Francis sputtered, "What did I do wr-"

"You're existence is all wrong frog!" Arthur hissed at him venomously.

"Arthur you hurt me so."

"Like I give a damn frog!" Arthur bit back just as hard. He turned away, finally fed up with squabbling with the French nation for today. Now all he wanted was to get some sleep. While he may have slept practically the whole day, he needed more time to digest what had happened. He'd discovered Alfred's secret trove of secrets, promptly beat up for it, and then forced to have a heart to heart discussion with the lad that had all but kicked his ass for even breathing inside the room. All in all, his head throbbed like a bitch because of it. "I need to sleep."

He heard Francis pout next to him, tsking as he bought French wine into his waiting lips. "Non, what you need is a good lay. I would be more than happy to –"

"Can it you imbecile! No one in their right mind would sleep with the likes of you!"

Francis's face brightened as he watched the fuming Brit amused. And suddenly his grin became feral as he leaned closer to whisper in the Brit's ear, "Ah, and you have many times." It was England's turn to sputter, turning red in embarrassment as he pushed himself away from the chucking Nation of Love.

"I did none of the sort!" Arthur defended, flushing even redder at the French man's face, "You…you- you attacked me at my weakest is all! I was drunk most of the time and I-"

"Excuse me," another voice had interjected into England's rushed rant. The two nations turned to see a stoic nation who had stared at the two mildly annoyed.

"Austria," Francis greeted with a small smile. Austria sighed, a gloved hand coming up to push away his silk locks away from his vision. England couldn't help but pout slightly. He could never grow his hair long enough for him to do such an action without his fingers suddenly caught upon tangles and tangles of rough, wild British mane.

Suddenly the man's mildly amused face suddenly turned irritated as he cast a glance the two bickering nations. "Now Please…spare us the details. We all heard you. We don't need to be reminded of such nightmares again." With that he all but turned around and left, leaving an wholly embarrassed England behind moaning with utter humiliation as Francis merely ended up laughing at their misfortune.

"FROG!"

"Angleterre it is not my fault you cannot contain your screams of pleasure!" Francis had defended just as quickly. As always, he was rewarded with a brutal punch. Francis winced massaging the spot as he listened to England explode another meaningless rant about status, proper decorum, and whatever the man deemed important. Smiling, he merely shrugged. At least the depressed mood that plagued the nation was gone for now.

* * *

><p>Note: So…it is my summer break and I decided to finish this chapter that I wrote just about a year ago. My gosh, Okay well the Revolution is done. YAY. I'm not entirely sure when exactly the next chapter is, but I sure hope I have enough time to even write it. We shall see. Med courses be damned! .<p> 


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